Black Rain
by darkergrey
Summary: A year before the OK, Norman Jayden's life is accidentally saved by a strange woman, who is unwilling to share anything about herself but her first name and minor nights in silent company. Yet everything changes when Jayden discovers she is not who she pretends to be and even more, might be related to the most crucial case of his career. (M for violence, adult themes, drug abuse..)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

_Disclaimer: Heavy Rain belongs to Quantic Dream._

_Rating: M for explicit adult themes, drug abuse, violence, suicidal themes, strong language and nudity. Yeah! _

_Summary: He's left in the back alley to die. She's planning suicide. Both attempts fail and their lives go on, headed in different directions. But fate hates to be outsmarted and the abyss is waiting patiently for its promised prey. _

_Additional warning: Yes, there will be a plot in this story in later chapters, but before, there'll be a certain amount of smut. Flame me. I like smut. Ah and yes, this is a short chapter story. _

_Idea: Idea? Seriously? Okay. First: My car has just broken down. Second, a doctor just cut my upper leg and sent electric impulses + stress hormones to my heart. Third: because of second, every walk outside to smoke a cigarette has turned to a walk of pain. Conclusion: I'm angry. So, here's a dark fic. Enjoy._

* * *

**Black Rain **

"_There is no such things as bravery; only degrees of fear."_

_(John Wainwright)_

**Chapter One: Overture **

_Charlottesville, Friday, 5__th__ November 2010_

This is the way he dies. Beaten up until his screams turned to silent groans. Until his desperate resistance turned to helpless squirms. Until his aching body rested bleeding on the cold, solid ground. It is winter, in a shitty back alley of Charlottesville and the few people which passed on the main street either didn't hear his calls for help, or didn't want to get in trouble. He believes the second, since one or two actually stopped, but then rushed on, as if they had only heard the meows of a straining cat.

Well, the neighborhood surely doesn't look like "civil courage" is on the top priority list of the citizens around.

He tries to guess the time that has passed since his epic fail. The pain in his limps has already turned to indifferent numbness, caused by the cold and the blood – _his _blood – is covered under a small line of new snow. Maybe one or two hours.

One or two hours and a dozen cries for help without any effect except that is throat is now sore and terribly dry.

Not that it matters much. He is going to die, right here, right now. The fifth victim of the Charlottesville rapist. The only differences are: he's not blonde and female, he's not under twenty and he still has his pants on.

Gladly. No one wants to die with the most intimate area revealed.

With a last attempt of bravery, he tries to rise from the dirty ground, but the only part of his body obeying to the command is his left foot. His right leg won't move an inch and even thinking about it sends sharp signals of pain through his body. He tries to turn his head and catch a glimpse of the damage, but his vision is too blurry and the darkness too thick.

His gaze turns to the streetlights on the main road and he wonders if he can possibly crawl over there, the thought a clear evidence of his desperation. To crawl meant to give up all his precious pride. The memory of his mother haunts him while he weighs up his pride against his life. _'Be proud of yourself when you have achieved something, but never let pride stop you, Norman. Ribbons and medals won't be your resurrection from death.'_

Well, if he wanted to get some ribbons or medals in his future, he would have to stay alive.

Slowly, he tries to drag his body over the dirty ground. The pain in his chest explodes, near to his ribcage and he stops right after the first move. So, no luck with that idea, either. The bastard must have broken two or three of his ribs with his brass knuckles.

It shouldn't have happened. He had had him, cornered, right here, his gun pointed at his fucking head. He had already had his handcuffs ready to send him to jail…

And then, everything had gone wrong. The ARI had betrayed him. No, not the ARI. The triptocaine. The ARI had helped him in his chase, had helped him to find him. The ARI was innocent. It had been the drug, the stupid, stupid drug, the blue powder in the phial.

'_It's just a sort of medication. It helps you to relax after using the ARI. Helps your brain to process all the information the ARI provides.'_

Yeah. Just a sniff against the side effects of the ARI. Sadly, nobody had given him a remedy against the side effects of the drug.

He remembers the flyers on college, the white ones with the big, red letters on them: _Drugs will kill you. Be smart._

Well, he has been outsmarted.

He wonders when they will find him here. And who will find him. Probably the garbage collection, since there's a big container right in front of him. It smells mouldy.

He smells sweaty, bloody and afraid. Though the fear is not as constant as before. Maybe because his mind is all foggy now and his eyelids are so heavy, actually, way too heavy to keep them open.

Once more he tries to shift his body forward, but all he gets is another painful complaint from his ribcage and his leg.

Finally, he closes his eyes and rests his head on his right arm. Time to give in to the inevitable truth: it is over.

* * *

**Have I already mentioned that I love reviews? Like, really, really love? No? Well, now I did. Ah, and I love flames as well. Don't be shy.**


	2. A pawn

"_Life is like a movie, if you've sat through more than half of it and its sucked every second so far, it probably isn't gonna get great right at the end and make it all worthwhile. None should blame you for walking out early." _

_(Doug Stanhope)_

**Chapter 2: A pawn **

_Charlottesville, Friday, 5__th__ November 2010_

The woman is nothing but a shadow in the crowd. A face forgotten in seconds. A random stranger.

Once upon a time, she has had a name, an identity. She has had family and friends and colleagues. She has had a past. And a future.

Today, she only has the present. And she hates it.

The sound of her heels clacking on the sidewalk as she rushes on frustrates her. The rise and fall of her chest due to her breathing frustrates her even more.

It's all wrong. The running. The breathing.

The woman knows she should be grateful for her existence. That she owes _the king_ to go on. But there's no purpose in her being, just the running. The running and the breathing.

With each city, she scatters her soul into so many pieces that they are uncountable now.

With each nonchalant acquaintance, she builds up another piece of the wall around her.

She's good in it. In nonchalance. In seducing smiles, meaning nothing. In her fairytale, she has been teased with the nickname _smokin'._ Nowadays, as far as she has heard it, she's called _dead Kat._

Well, whoever invented this has earned himself a first place on her black list.

Though, the black list doesn't matter anymore. Right now, as she rushes through the shittier parts of Charlottesville, nothing matters anymore.

Her emotions are limited to cool logic and indifferent precision.

The promise she has made, the promise to try, has finally turned out as intolerable. Her effort is senseless, her existence limited to simple breathing.

She has never been good in running away.

The woman stops, all of a sudden and dives her right hand into her purse. The gun is there, safe and sound. It has turned to her r_eason_; the constant memory of reality. It makes sure she never gets lost and in the same time, it's her only true way to lose her way.

The cities, the men, they work as a short distraction, a short adrenaline kick, until the truth creeps up on her again: there's nothing more for her to do. She's out of the show.

The woman has a short look around and enters a small, dark, back alley.

It is perfect, for her purpose. Nobody here pays attention to anything.

She puts the purse down on the floor and takes the gun out. A small smile enlightens her lips as her fingers almost tenderly touch the cold material.

She releases the safety catch and her mind mutters a silent excuse to _him_ as her right hand raises the gun to her head.

The woman closes her eyes and inhales, holds her breath and opens her eyes as she exhales.

She adjusts the gun carefully. She doesn't want to mess things up. Not now, when she can almost feel the bittersweet end.

Her fingers start to slowly pull the trigger, but stop as she suddenly hears a low sound, like a groan. She hesitates.

_Chicken,_ her inner voice says. _Now you're already hallucinating sounds to avoid the inevitable._

She shakes her head in silent denial and strains her ears. The sound has been real.

And there it is again, somehow low and rasping; coming from the other side of the garbage container she is currently leaning on.

_Just an animal, dearest. A wounded cat or something like that. Nothing that should keep you up. Now pull the trigger and stop acting like this was a fucking comedy show._

She's unsure and stays where she is, the gun still down. The sound disturbs her ears once more and she takes the purse, burying the gun in it.

_Oh, come on! Are you serious?_

The woman ignores the comments and walks slowly around the container, carefully, vigilant.

The first thing catching her attention is the blood trail, covered slightly by new snow. Then, she sees the figure on the ground.

She stops. She can barely see anything in the darkness, but judging by shape, there's a man lying right in front of her.

Her first impulse is to smash her purse on the ground and kneel down, see if he's still alive, but she's kept from it by the voice. It starts to annoy her.

_Kneel down, darling? Really? What use would that be? Tell me, are you a nurse? No, you're not a nurse. Are you a doctor? No, you're not. Take your phone out of your purse, if you have to care. Call the ambulance. And then, go on with your business. The ambulance can call the coroner as soon as they are here, so you won't get robbed. Well, if they hurry._

For a second, she wants to obey to the voice of her present being. But her past being interferes immediately. Yes, she can call the ambulance. But even if she gave them a perfect description, would they find this special back alley? And if they didn't find the right one on their first try, would they really search for a wounded person in this neighborhood?

She's not sure about it. In her mind, present voice and past voice have already started a terrible fight over her next action. The fight ends as soon as she lets go off her purse.

* * *

**There we are. In this alley. No lights... Question is: can we make it out? **


	3. Holly Golightly

**A/N: Holly Golightly belongs to Truman Capote. **

"_It's useful being top banana in the shock department."_

_(Holly Golightly, Breakfast at Tiffany's)_

**Chapter Three: Holly Golightly **

Someone's shaking his shoulder. There's a voice, somewhere, behind the blur and the shadows and the fear. He tries to concentrate, tries to put his senses together and eventually, manages to open his eyes.

But he sees nothing, except a figure in the darkness.

"_Sir, can you hear me?"_

The voice is female, a little bit dark, but there's still no image. Just the blur. He wants to reply, wants to at least nod his head, but his body refrains.

The hand on his shoulder removes and the voice is talking to someone else. She's talking too fast and he can't follow her, can't understand what she is saying.

Then, suddenly, his body is covered with something warm and comfortable. He wonders if it could be a blanket, but why would she be carrying a blanket with her?

He puts all his remaining strengths together to turn his head at least an inch and his eyes fall on the sleeve of a black wool coat at his left shoulder. It's her coat. She has taken her coat off.

He wants to contradict, tell her she'll only catch pneumonia if she runs around without a coat in this weather, but the effort he has put in turning his head is now taking its toll. His eyes fall shut and the blur intensifies.

Suddenly, his left hand is covered with something warm. It takes him ages to realize that the woman is holding his hand, her slender fingers crossed with his own.

He grabs her hand tight, at least, he wants to grab it tight, because his body is shaking with cold and the hand, _her hand_, is his only link to reality while he falls in and out of consciousness.

Then there are sirens and footsteps and words that sound like commands. He is lifted from the cold ground, his body protesting to the sudden movement. Her hand seeks to slip away, but he doesn't let go, he cannot let go, because it is the only thing he is sure of is real. He wants it to stay. Needs it to stay.

There's a male voice talking and the woman replies, sounding angry and shortcut. The hand stays. The hand stays and consciousness leaves.

* * *

As he opens his eyes again, he's still in the ambulance. He can tell that by the sound, the sound of the sirens right above him. He turns his head partially and blinks his eyes.

His vision is fooling him. His vision is fooling him and Holly Golightly sits in front of him, with wet hair, dirty jeans and the most amazing brown-green eyes he has ever seen.

"Who are you?" he forces out and his voice sounds hollow, even to himself.

"Nobody", she replies, but of course she is somebody; she is Holly Golightly, the young Audrey Hepburn – no, she's a random, ordinary stranger and it's just his imagination playing games.

He wants to ask her something else, but his lips stay sealed. So, he just closes his eyes and gives in to the lingering darkness.

* * *

The next time his eyes open he is lying in a hospital bed, a doctor checking his pulse. The lights of the ceiling disturb him. He turns his head partially, searching for the owner of the hand, but there's no one else in the room.

"Where is she?" he asks.

"Who?" the doctor replies and takes some notes.

He waits. Hesitates. Has she been a hallucination? No. No. Her hand has been warm. Her hand has been warm and she has been there, alive, breathing.

"The woman. Which looks like Holly Golightly", he says wearily. The doctor gives him a weird look. He should have spared the last sentence. She didn't look like Audrey Hepburn.

"She's gone. Said she'd be back later. You were lucky she called the ambulance. Two or three hours longer and you'd have frozen to death."

Relief washes over him. She has been there. She really has been there. For the moment, it matters more to him than the medical machines.

* * *

The woman does not like hospitals, most of all, she detests the smell. She has had a shower after each visit she has paid him, but the smell still lingers on her skin, mocking the whole situation.

Yet, she sits in the chair patiently, her eyes focused on the man in the hospital bed. Her inner voice is sitting in its corner, sulky, anxiously. It does not like to be here. It wants to go back to the alley and finish the business. It is troubled by the constant disobedience, troubled and shocked. It has not been ignored for a year. From time to time, it tries to bring itself back into her mind, but she does not let it in.

Her thoughts are hidden from it. The situation is alarming. Dangerous.

The woman does not pay any attention to the fight going on in her mind. She takes a sip of her coffee and takes the glasses out of her purse. The glasses she has slipped out of his chest pocket during the drive to the hospital. Just for protection, of course. They looked expensive to her, too expensive to just risk them getting lost during the medical treatment. Besides, he is obviously very fond of them, keeping them in his chest pocket. It's the kind of action you never really think about, but speaks for itself.

She turns the glasses in her hands, still wondering about the three letters on its leg. A.R.I. It's not a brand, she is very sure of this, because she knows brands and labels and that kind of stuff.

She feels tempted to try them on, see what is so special about them, but it would be most inadequate.

Instead, she lays them on the little desk and turns her gaze back on him.

He seems too young to be fucked up like that. But she is too young to be fucked up like that as well. Life is a bitch. The world is a bitch. The world always goes on with its spin, it never stops. The world is immune to everything. It consists of cold indifference.

Her eyes fall on the scar on his cheek and she cannot help but wonder where he got that. A situation like this? Or just the wrong move of a child playing games?

And coming to the word child – where exactly are his relatives? She has been here every day since he has been admitted, but except for the police officers, she has been his only visitor. And the cops only came to check if he was already awake. She can tell, by the way they talked, that they don't like him. They need him, yes, but they don't give a damn about him. Of course, she does not know if their feelings are justified. Maybe he is an arrogant stiff, like they said. Or maybe they are just jerks.

She'll form her opinion as soon as he is awake.

* * *

Norman Jayden dreams of heights. Of walking over a small plank so high in the clouds he cannot see the ground. Of hanging on the edge of a cliff. Of falling out of a plane. He falls, in each scenario; he falls and smashes his useless body on rocks and oceans.

_You'll never reach the sky when you don't dare to lift your feet off the ground, Norman,_ his mother says.

But he can't. He can't lift his feet off the ground because he loses control if he does.

_There is no such thing as control. Control is nothing but an illusion. You cannot control the outcome of a story. There are just too many unpredictable factors. Even the theory of probability cannot help you out of this. You cannot calculate life, Norman. It's not steady. It flows._

He opens his eyes and is blinded by the lights on a ceiling, a ceiling unknown. It's not his hotel room. For a second, he feels completely disorientated. Then he can hear the typical sounds of medical machines and his memory slowly returns. _Oh yeah, right. I got my butt kicked by the Charlottesville rapist._

He closes his eyes again, to avoid the dazzling lights, as a familiar voice forces him back to reality.

"Hi", it says.

He turns his head partially and wonders slightly if he is still as fucked up as before, because the woman in the chair still looks like Holly… No, she doesn't. Her hair is too dark, a dark brown. Her face features are more determined, fiercer than Audrey Hepburn's. Besides, she seems taller and her body is slender, not skinny. Only the eye color fits, the same weird mixture of brown and green. He can see her clearly now, for the first time, in all her perfect features and steady calmness.

"Do you remember me?" she asks quietly.

"You're Holly Golightly", he says and curses silently. "No", he starts again. "You're not. You called the ambulance, didn't you?"

"Yes."

His gaze wanders slowly over the room. "I'm in the hospital, am I?"

"Apparently."

He nods his head slowly and tries to lift his right leg. Judging by the pain shooting through his nerves, not really the best idea he has ever head.

"I would not move, if I were you", the woman says matter-of-factly.

"Yeah", he pants. "Thanks for the great advice."

_Oh yes, now that's the way to talk to somebody who just saved your ass._

He turns his gaze back towards her. "Sorry."

She raises an eyebrow, but does not reply.

"What time is it?" he asks, just to end the silence.

The woman has a look at her watch. "6:34 p.m. Monday, 8th November."

"Monday?" he asks. "Oh, shit."

Her lips curl into a small grin, but it disappears immediately.

"You should feel lucky you live to see this Monday", she says.

She's right, of course, but that doesn't change the fact that it has been four days since the Charlottesville rapist escaped right under his nose, four days in which he probably caught another victim.

"What are you still doing here?" he asks.

The woman eyes him. "I am sorry", she says and rises from the chair. "I did not know my company was unwanted."

The words come out lightly, but he backpedals immediately.

"No. No. That was not what I was saying. I just… I mean… Please, sit down."

Her expression is perfectly blank as she sits down again. She doesn't seem to be offended.

"The police have interrogated me", she says. "They took my coat as evidence. Together with your clothes."

His clothes? Oh yes. He's wearing a nightdress. Great. He frowns, then suddenly, a shiver of cold sweat runs over his spine. The ARI. He had had in his chest pocket. Had he lost it during the fight? Or had the police taken it as well? For a second, he doesn't know which scenario is worse.

"I had a pair of glasses", he asks, his tone way too nervous. "Do you know what happened to them? Did the police take them?"

The woman shakes her head. "No. I slipped them out of your pocket while we were in the ambulance. They looked expensive and I didn't want them to… disappear in the hospital." She opens her purse and holds them out to him.

Relief calms his face as the ARI is back in his possession. He turns it carefully in his hands. It's still intact.

"Thank you", he says. "For… everything."

"What are the letters for?" she asks calmly. "On the leg? It's not a brand."

"Er… No. It's short for Added Reality Interface. It's a new technology of the FBI." Suddenly, he realizes he hasn't even introduced himself to her. _Manners are important, _his mother had said. _There are so many intelligent people on this planet, but when it comes down to manners, they are all frogs. _

"I'm an agent", he adds hurriedly.

There's a small hint of amusement in her expression as she replies: "I know. The police told me."

"Oh. Yeah, right. I'm sorry for your coat, by the way. It will take a rather long period of time until you get it back."

"Yes. It is a pity. I was very fond of it." She turns her gaze away from him. "But starting with apologies, I fear I have put you in a rather awkward situation."

He frowns, irritated. "How?"

"I have told your cop buddies I'm a prostitute." The words come out nonchalant, as if she was talking about the weather.

For seconds, he only stares at her. His eyes wander over her, thoughtful, analyzing.

"But you're not", he finally states.

"No."

The reply lingers in the air and she turns her head back to him.

"Well… Why did you lie?"

"I don't like police officers. They make me… nervous."

He considers her carefully and realizes the last part has been a lie. Her whole behavior doesn't speak for a nervous person. She is a little bit aloof and quite held back, yes, but definitely not chicken.

Yet, it seems wrong to him to question her further. After all, she's the only reason he is still alive.

"But you like FBI agents", he states. She awards him with a very odd look. "I mean, if you wouldn't, you wouldn't still be here, would you?"

"I am still here because I wanted to return your glasses", she explains, her eyes distant. "I don't know if I like FBI agents. I have never met one before. I will have to base my opinion on you."

"I doubt this is a good idea." He actually means to let it sound funny, but it's a lot more serious then he intended.

"Why? Because you are an arrogant stiff?" she asks calmly.

He wonders where that line came from, but guesses his "cop buddies" hadn't paid too much attention on hiding their dislike. "No. But I guess I'm not the prime example."

The small grin appears on her lips again. "Not for the self-defense strategies of the FBI, that's for sure."

Speechless, he just looks at her. "You are very direct."

The grin on her lips disappears. "I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you."

With another look on her watch, she rises. "I think I should leave now. The senior nursing officer does not quite like to have a prostitute around. And I have to attend a flight tomorrow morning."

"Wait", he says as she takes her purse.

She raises her eyebrow in question.

"Thank you. Again. For… saving my ass."

She shrugs her shoulders. "Couldn't just leave you in that alley, could I?"

He watches her as she walks over to the door and something inside him protests to her leave. She has saved his life, he owns her more than just a ten minutes talk. At least, he has to suggest something more than a conversation.

"Can I invite you for dinner?" he blurts out, just as she lays her hand on the doorknob.

She turns around and eyes him. "Dinner?"

"Not as a date", he hurries to say. "Just… to pay back my debts."

"This is not necessary", she says.

"Yes, it is", he contradicts. "Please. We could meet up when you're back… And when I'm out of here."

The woman hesitates, then shakes her head. "This is not possible. I don't live here. I just had to do a job in Charlottesville. I'm a headhunter, for a big concern. I'm in a different city each week, all over the country."

"Oh."

"Thank you for the offer, though. I appreciate it." And she really looks like she does. Before he knows what he is saying, the words are already out: "We can meet somewhere else, maybe. I'm… in different cities most of the time as well. Chances might be we end up in the same once more."

Her eyes narrow as she thinks about his suggestions, then she nods slowly. "Alright."

She opens her purse and takes out a notepad and a pen. She writes something down, rips of a small piece of the paper and hands it over to him.

"My phone number. Send me your location and I'll see what I can do."

The woman walks back to the door and opens it, while he stares on the numbers on the small sheet.

"You didn't write your name on it", he says.

With a last, unpredictable smile, she replies: "Holly Golightly. How can you forget that?"

* * *

As soon as she sets her feet out of the hospital, the voice returns out of its corner.

_Holly Golightly my ass. This guy's a joker. I mean, when was the last time you felt lightly, dearest?_

The woman just rushes on, down the entrance, not caring for a reply.

_Of course, it doesn't matter. It's not like you intend to see him again… Or do you?_

The woman smiles mysteriously while she stops at the main road, trying to catch a cab.

_Wait a minute… You DO want to see him again? Are you fucking crazy? Why the hell… _The voice stops. Reconsiders. _Oh. So that's the plan. The king will not be pleased, honey. You know that._

"I don't give a damn", she mutters as a cab drives over.

The voice stays silent for some minutes, then says: _Florida. If we need more smokin' and less dead Kat, we should go to Florida._

The woman nods her head in agreement.

* * *

**Okay, I really tried to advise these two to stay away from each other, but well, kids never listen. Therefore, I simply have to start with the smut in the next chapter (and slowly start to solve all the mysteries...).**

**Oh, and **_**Holly**_** darling, it's time you return this name to its owner and live with your own. _Honey._  
**


	4. Kiss and Tell

**A/N: I know, I know. I promised this chapter would contain smut. But I also said I would keep this a short chapter story and this chapter already has 5 pages, so I have decided to leave the smut for the next one. The good thing is: The smutty part is already written, so it will not take a long time until it's there. I'd like to mention, though, that this story will have a plot. It's not intended to end as porn. Honestly. **

**Thanks, again, for the reviews. I really appreciate your company on this joyride and I hope I will be able to make it entertaining. (Have I mentioned, by the way, that I am going to get my new car on Friday? Yes! Finally!)**

"_Human identity is the most fragile thing that we have, and it's often only found in moments of truth."  
(Alan Rudolph) _

**Chapter 4: Kiss and Tell**

_Pittsburgh, Thursday 6__th__ January 2011 _

The woman has decided for Emily. It has been a tough decision, but in the end, it's Emily who looks back at her out of the mirror. Emily, with her tight, dark jeans flattering her long legs and the casual black shirt. And the lack of make-up, except for the mascara.

She has always been very fond of Emily's appearance, because it meant less work. Against to Faye's. Or Susie's. Or any other of the women's images apparent in her mind.

There's only one last detail she has to fix and sadly, it turns out rather annoying tonight: the hair. At daytime, she usually wears a pony tail, because it comes in handy. When she goes out, she pins it up more fashionable, to accentuate her cheekbones. But today, today of all days, her neck has been itching the whole afternoon and as she turns partially, she can see that the skin around the spot is all red.

Not really an inviting sight. She could go for a pony tail, yes, but it does not quite fit the rest. It makes her look like she just came from sports.

That's the problem when you head for understatement. One little detail messed up and you're underdressed.

She combs her hair again. It has grown a lot in the last year and covers her shoulder blades completely now. She tucks it behind her ears and looks back into the mirror.

It works well, astonishingly. Adds a certain… human touch to her blank eyes.

The woman does not like to wear her hair open _outside_, because it annoys her when it falls into her face like a curtain, but tonight, she obviously has no other choice.

She checks the time. 8:46 p.m.

They have agreed on meeting in the bar of his hotel at 9:30 p.m., for a drink. In Charlottesville, he had said "dinner", but she had been able to turn it into liquid only.

He had texted her four weeks earlier, from Washington, but well, she had been in Miami that time, so it had been most inconvenient. Not to mention the fact she would never agree on meeting him in his hometown. That was clearly not part of the… arrangement.

_Strategy, honey. It's a strategy, not an arrangement. An arrangement takes two people talking about a thing. A strategy is the way of an individual to achieve what it wants,_ the voice says.

"Yes, whatever", she mutters and walks back to the bedroom. The cab will arrive in ten minutes, leaving her still some time to waste. She opens her middle seize purse again and checks her equipment. It would be most unprofessional if the evening had to end differently than she has planned it just because she has left something in the hotel room. But everything seems in place, so she takes her new black coat and the scarf, wrapping it around her neck.

The woman has a last, scrutinizing look at the mirror. The coat suits her well; the military style underlines her determination. She still longs for her old one, though, but of course, it's stupid to think about it. She is not going to see it again.

She leaves the room and walks down the stairs, past the reception. The old woman behind the desk smiles at her. "Your cab is already waiting, Miss."

This is just the reason while she prefers small hotels over groups. The service is nicer and more discrete.

She hurries over to the cab, shivering. It's starry and ice-cold outside, but gladly, there are no clouds in the sky, so leaving the umbrella in the room will not turn into an epic mistake.

The woman gets into the cab and fastens the seatbelt. "The Westin Convention Center, please", she tells the driver.

She knows it is a thirty minutes' drive, because she has looked that up as she has chosen her hotel.

_Of course you have, darling. You basically planned the whole evening, from the beginning to the end. No, not exactly to the end. But you have considered different ends and what you are willing to do to get them. So, clear your mind, honey, clear your face and bring back the combat smile._

* * *

Norman Jayden sits in a lower corner of the hotel bar and carefully watches the people around him. Three bachelors sit on the bar for their evening beer, all three dressed in expensive looking suits with the air of the G.Q. magazine reader around them. Right now, they are busy examining a group of young women on a table in the upper left corner, arguing about which of looks the hottest, making silly comments about advantages and disadvantages of blondes and brunettes.

It's the same old discussion guys at college argued over, a discussion he never quiet understood. Maybe because he had been too busy studying his subjects, instead of studying the former cheerleaders.

Of course, he had had a date occasionally as well, but it had never been serious. College had been no place to establish a serious relationship, well, not in his opinion. Where was the sense in falling madly in love with someone, knowing she would probably end up taking a job hundreds of miles away from you? It had to end in suffering and heartache and he had never felt the wish to get his heart broken and his mind screwed up. Not in college and surely not now.

The work is all that really matters to him, at least for the moment. Besides, he does not consider his job compatible with the demands of a woman. Women take time and he has none to offer. Maybe later, when he has distinguished himself as an agent. For now, he is content with his almost hermit-like lifestyle. The other agents can chase skirts. He rather chases criminals.

Actually, he would rather chase a criminal now instead of sitting here, wasting his time waiting for her.

Gladly, she has suggested a drink and not dinner. He'll buy her two or three, polite, generous and head for some small talk. Simple. Well, except for the small talk. He hasn't really found a topic he could aim for. Evidence enough that this will be a complete waste of time. Of his and of hers. But debts are debts and they need to be paid.

He looks at his watch. 9:29 p.m. The waiter comes over and he orders another shot of vodka, fixing his eyes on the clear liquid until he hears the sound of heels approaching the table. He looks up and there she is, Holly Golightly, dressed in a new black coat and tight jeans. He rises and even manages a small smile.

"Hi", he says and somehow, the word disturbs him. It seems too limp, too familiar.

"Hi", she replies in her casual tone, the same one she used in the hospital.

"Please, sit down", he hurries to say.

The woman looks at the four chairs and puts her purse in the one right of him. She unbuttons her coat and takes off the scarf, covering her purse with the clothing and finally sits down in the chair in front of him.

She tucks her hair back behind her ears and crosses her legs. The waiter arrives in an instant and she orders a gin tonic, leaning back in the chair.

"I'm glad you made it", he says. "I mean, I wanted to thank you properly and well… it's hard to thank somebody when you are high on medication and strapped on a hospital bed."

"Probably", she replies, as shortcut as ever.

The waiter returns and puts her drink on a table. "Thank you", she says and takes a sip.

The conversation stands still. She has just arrived and it already stands still. His mind rushes, searching for a topic, but there's nothing, absolutely nothing he can think of.

"So…", he starts, but stops. _So what?_

"So?" she asks, raising her eyebrow.

_Oh shit. Now, that's a really, really great start._

"Er… You came here to work?" he asks, finally, after ages of awkward silence.

"Actually, I came here to have a drink", she replies matter-of-factly.

He stares at her and tries to find out if she's making fun of his obvious discomfort, but nothing in her expression points out she does. Actually, her expression doesn't point out anything, at least, nothing he can interpret. Worrying.

"Actually, I was referring to your stay in Pittsburgh", he explains. _I was referring… Seriously? Are we having a conversation with the Royal Family or why are we so fucking formal?_

"No. I just had to attend a meeting." The woman has a look over her shoulder and watches a couple on the dance floor.

"A business meeting?" he asks.

"Yes", she replies, without turning back.

"But that's working, isn't it?"

Finally, her eyes meet his again and he believes to see the shadow of a smile on her lips.

"No. It's spending five hours in a conference room, pretending to discuss a topic, though actually, everyone is arguing about who's the greatest and why and hey, have you heard whom I engaged for Microsoft last week? Top-dog battle. Annoying, useless and a waste of time."

"I'm sorry to hear that", he says and tries to sound sympathetic.

"Can't do anything about it. I guess every job has its annoying sides."

"Yeah, like internal politics bullshit", he sighs. "Oh, sorry." _First too formal, now swearing – can this get any better?_

"Internal politics _bullshit_?" she asks and sounds amused. "That's what bothers you?"

_Yeah, because it always turns out as me against the jerks from the local police station. Ready, steady, fight._

"I hate paperwork."

"You hate paperwork", she repeats incredulously.

"Yeah. Is that… odd?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "Well, I thought you'd say something like: it bothers me to end up wrecked in a dirty alley, but well, paperwork is most certainly unpleasant." And her eyes travel back to the dance floor.

_She is making fun of me… Isn't she? Damn, can't she stop looking around?_

"Well, no danger, no ribbons", he says, in an attempt of joking.

"Can I see it?" she asks calmly.

"What?"

She turns her head. "The ribbon."

"Sorry", he replies fast, to cover his irritation. "Didn't bring it."

"What a pity. I was hoping you'd show me your collection", she says. There's a new nuance in her tone, almost inaudible, but it is clearly there. For a second, he is completely irritated. Could she be – flirting with him? He looks at her closely, but she has lowered her gaze to her glass. Time for topic change.

"What have you done in that alley? If you don't mind me asking."

"True answer?" she asks and looks up.

"Er… Yes… Unless you don't feel comfortable with it."

"I don't, but just because I hate to confess my mistakes. But well, I was lost. Totally lost. I actually just stopped at that alley because I wanted to call a cab to get me out of there. I started to feel a little bit… scared by the surroundings."

He raises his eyebrow in doubt. "You don't look like the easily scaring type to me."

"Just because you have never seen me run away from a butterfly", she says casually.

"Butterfly? You're afraid of butterflies?" he asks doubtfully, sure he has misheard something.

"I hate them", she growls.

"But… really? I mean… What about spiders? Isn't that a more… typical fear, for a woman?"

"Probably, but spiders don't worry me. Spiders run on the ground and you can always calculate their direction, but butterflies fly around and change their course in every possible and impossible way…" She stops and looks at him. "Does that make me sound weird?"

"Er… yeah. A little."

"I am sorry", she says and, of course, fixes her eyes back on the other people in the bar.

He finishes his drink and orders another one, but the woman does not turn back.

He watches her closely. On one hand, he finds it very hard to talk to her, but on the other, he cannot help but wonder why she is still such a mystery to him, starting with her name and ending with her thoughts. Usually, he finds it rather easy to analyze people, but right now, he cannot even tell if she has withdrawn her attention because she's embarrassed, or bored, or just curious.

He is sure he could end the evening now, by telling her he needs to work. She would just nod her head and accept, thanking him for the drink. But actually, he doesn't want to. There's something lingering under her surface, something that is the key to understanding her and he wants to reach it, wants to solve the puzzle. She is a challenge for his profiling skills.

"Don't you think watching people is the greatest distraction, ever?" she suddenly asks. "I like to do that. When I'm at the airport or the train station, I waste my time imagining other peoples' life stories. What's going on in their heads."

He stares at her, surprised, as she finally turns back.

"But I guess this makes me only weirder", she says and empties her glass.

"Well, considering you're talking to someone who gets paid to do that, it doesn't sound weird at all", he replies.

She narrows her eyes. "You're a profiler?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. Haven't I mentioned that?"

She shakes her head. "No. I mean, you mentioned nothing about you. While I already told you about my greatest fear. I think I'll have to hold myself back now. Before you finish the psychoanalysis."

And again, he is insecure whether she is joking, or not. _Seems a psychology degree really isn't the key to everyone's secrets._

"You haven't even told me your name, but you're afraid I could analyze you?" he asks and immediately realizes this is the critical point. There's always a point in a conversation between strangers that either extends the evening, or ends it. He has already decided to go for extension, but her intention is still a mystery and the way she raises her eyebrow indicates she knows it. Knows that, right about now, she has everything under control and he can't do anything about it, except to wait for her reply. It makes him feel uncomfortable, but well, there are only two possible actions she can choose: take a step back and prepare her good-bye, or go for kiss and tell.

"My mom always advised me to be careful with strangers", she finally says.

It's a clear step back. For a second, he feels a light sting of disappointment. _Challenge ended, _he thinks. _You've just been turned down, Norman. Like always._

Of course, he is used to it. To be turned down. It happens very often, it _has_ happened very often since he's been a child. He usually faces it with nonchalance and indifference, but behind this masquerade, he secretly wonders why it is so hard for him to socialize with people. Yes, he is able to analyze them (in general), but he is not able to connect. Unlike his mother. She had been able to connect with everybody, while he just touches the surface before he gets a kick in the ass.

He leans back in his chair and waits for the inevitable – that she stands up, thanks him for the drinks and leaves – but she doesn't. Instead, her eyes linger on him for ages, before she finally says:

"Kate. My name is Kate."

He stares at her for seconds, before he recovers from the surprise. "Just Kate?"

"Just Kate. For now."

It's clever. She's clever. She tells and hides in the same moment.

"Kate, then", he agrees and empties his drink. They bother order another one as the waiter removes the glasses.

"So, since you know my name now, do I have the official allowance to call you Norman?" she asks and it sounds… teasingly.

"No", he says immediately and, by seeing her expression, adds: "Just call me Jayden. Everyone does."

"At your request?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Actually, no. It just so happened. But well, Norman is not really the most modern name in the world, is it?"

"Well, it's unique. Against to Kate", she says casually and lays her hands around the new drink.

"Yeah, but unique sounds pretty much like antique." His eyes wander over the room and he suddenly raises an eyebrow. "Mentioning antique… Turn your head to the right. Discreet."

She looks at him, surprised and then slowly follows his suggestion. Her eyes fall on a matronly, elder lady in a very old fashioned dress, looking like a Grecian robe. Her neck and arms are covered with pearls, but the most conspicuous part of her appearance is the crown in her hair.

"Oh my god", the woman says and it sounds very aloof. "She stole the crown jewels."

There's a small hint of a grin on his lips. "I knock her over, you call the police."

"Oh, no, don't. Her fall will trigger an earthquake, leading to a serious postponement of the continental plates, and I don't want to end up near Russia."

The matter-of-factness in her voice, together with the vivid picture in his mind, forces his grin to widen, until it's a smile. A real smile, accompanied by a shake of his head. He looks at her and sees she is smiling as well, her eyes sparkling with amusement. It's an amazing change in her features and for a second, he wonders if this is the way to unravel her. Making her smile.

But the moment is gone as soon as it came and she lowers her gaze back to her glass.

"You really like to make up stories, do you?" he asks.

She shrugs her shoulders and sighs. "I'm trained. I spend so many hours at airports. I love flying, but I hate the waiting. At the check-in, when you pass security, when the plane is boarding… Well, you know the procedure."

He shakes his head. "Actually, I don't. I never fly."

She looks up, irritated. "Really? You mean you're driving to every city you are dispatched to?"

"Yes."

"Even when it takes long? Like, longer than twelve hours?"

"Yes."

The woman blinks her eyes. "Wow. I didn't think the FBI was so stingy."

"It's not. I could fly. I just don't want to", he replies casually and drinks.

"Oh. There's the rub. You're afraid of flying", she says and sounds content, leaning back in her chair, arms folded before her chest.

"Actually, it's not the flying. I am just afraid of heights", he explains.

"Heights, huh? So, you've booked a room on the first floor, have you?"

"Sadly, that's impossible. My room is on the fifteenth floor."

"Now I envy you", she says.

He raises an eyebrow. "You envy me? Why?"

"Well, I have a… habit. It's probably stupid, but whenever I'm in a city, I take a photograph of the skyline by night as a memory. Sadly, this time, my company has chosen a very small hotel near the airport and I can't see anything except planes and tourists." She fixes his eyes on him. "You would not take a picture for me and send it to my phone?"

"I would, but I can't. I avoid the window."

"That's a pity", she says and finishes her drink.

"But I let you take a picture, if you want to", he says slowly.

"Out of your window?" she asks.

"Yes. Out of my window."

Her eyes narrow and he raises his hands in defense. "Look, I am really just talking about the picture. I mean, I have a bottle of vodka in my room, so I could maybe offer you another drink as well, but I'm not going to jump at you, if that's what you fear."

She shakes her head. "No, no. Of course you won't."

He stares at her, irritated by the way she said the last sentence, but then decides to ignore it.

"Okay. So… Shall I pay and… you take the picture? I mean, it's getting late and I've got to work tomorrow… And you probably have to attend a flight…"

"Yes, sure. I'll just… go and powder my nose. I'll wait for you outside, if you don't mind", she says and rises, taking her belongings.

"Yes, of course… Shall I take something for you? The coat, maybe?" he asks.

"No, no. It's fine."

He watches her as she walks out of the bar and suddenly, there's a slight feeling of discomfort pinching in his chest. He has never invited a woman to his hotel room, never, since he is a member of the FBI. It doesn't seem right to him, to do… such things when he is supposed to be working. But well, it's only a polite gesture, just so she can take her picture. It's not like he wants to do more; well, she is pretty, of course, but it's not the right time and place, not mentioning it's surely not the right way to thank somebody… And it's not like she wanted to; he had to bulldoze her to have a drink with him, so, there's actually, nothing to worry about. Like the color of his pants or something like that. She'll be gone in approximately 30 minutes and then, she'll be nothing more but a fading memory, an accidentally acquaintance, a number in his phone he never dials.

He calls the waiter and pays the bill, feeling reassured as he leads her up to his room.

* * *

**Kitty Katie, please pass me the bottle of Whiskey and the pain medication. Oh, this is going to be so **_**funny**_** (no, it's not, but hey, better to be laughing than to be crying). God, it seriously takes such an amount of time before you get somebody laid. Frustrating. **


	5. Igniting

**A/N: **

**I know, I know. I promised this chapter would be published a lot earlier, but I got distracted. I am really sorry. Thank you for your patience and your reviews and your favs and follows. I really appreciate it. **

**By the way, this chapter is rated M. For a reason. It is not suitable for children. Maybe it's not suitable at all…**

"_So I program the timer  
I ignite the fuse  
If Caesar was watching  
he would not be amused."_

_(Let there be light – Belladonna feat. Michael Nyman)_

**Chapter 5: Igniting**

_Pittsburgh, Thursday 6__th__ January 2011 _

She does not like elevators, she never has. They make her feel caged.

But she doubts she can persuade him to take the stairs up to the fifteenth floor. And, by the way, ending up breathless before they enter the room would not add up with her plan.

Therefore, she does not suggest it. Actually, she does not talk at all while she follows him up to his room. He does not talk either, so it seems adequate to her.

She wonders if he has any idea what's coming next. Usually, her dates go a lot easier. But this hasn't been a date to begin with. And in all honesty, he's not the kind of guy she would normally pick for a date. He's not quite her type. Not her type at all.

_It does not matter, does it? Whether he is your type or not. It's not like you want him to buy you a diamond ring at Tiffany's, t_he voice says, sounding annoyed.

As if she has ever wasted a thought on diamond rings. Well, maybe as a child, when she was reading fairytales of princesses and dragons and all that, but surely not since she graduated.

She risks a look at him, from aside. His hands are in his pockets and his gaze is focused on the storey information.

_Weird, huh? The last time you took a ride with a guy to his hotel room, you were all hands in the elevator. Maybe you're not his type, either._

A possibility, of course. But she doubts it. To her, he appears… uneasy, not ill-disposed towards her.

The elevator holds and she follows him through the corridor, until he finally stops and takes out the keycard.

_Here we are. Battlefield. Let's just hope he's not hiding a fetish behind his reserved behavior. Like cages and black leather clothes and whips, _the voice comments and the woman suppresses a grin as she walks into the room.

It's very modern, meaning the quality of the furniture is expensive and the quantity very limited. The bed is grey, the sheets white. A large TV screen informs the guest about the hotel services.

A very surreal painting hangs on the wall above the bed. She has never been very interested in art.

At least, no cages and whips.

"Nice", she says. "I guess the FBI really isn't stingy." She makes a few steps into the room, then stops and turns towards him.

He just shrugs his shoulders. "It's alright."

He walks over to the little fridge on the left and takes out the vodka bottle.

"Would you like one?"

"Sure, why not?" she replies calmly.

She eyes him closely and realizes his hands are trembling slightly as he fills in the drinks. He seems nervous, avoiding eye contact. Whatever led him to invite her to his room; it's obvious he regrets it already.

The woman wonders why. People do this every day, some people (like her) almost have a habit for ending up with a stranger in a hotel room, but he's obviously not used to it.

Under other circumstances, she would suspect a girlfriend causing his trouble, but well, no one has visited him back there in the hospital, so apparently, he's just not used to hook-ups.

He holds the drink out to her and she takes it.

"Thanks."

The woman only takes a drop, then puts the glass on the sideboard, taking her phone out of her purse.

"Would you mind if I take the picture now?" she asks politely.

He empties his glass. "No, of course not."

She awards him with a small smile and walks over to the frightening monster. The view is really amazing. For a second, she is caught by the sparkling lights of the city, then she remembers the phone in her hand.

"Is it alright if I open it? It's easier to take a proper picture without the reflection of the window glass."

"As long as you don't need me to assist you", he replies and pours himself another drink.

_Oh boy, the part when you have to come over and assist us will come sooner as you think, _the voice giggles.

She frowns, ordering the voice to remain silent and stop distracting her, before she opens the window and takes the picture.

"Perfect", she says as she looks at it, then she gets on her tiptoes and leans out of the window.

"Don't do that", he suddenly says.

"Why? Think I'm gonna jump?" she asks, looking over her shoulder.

"No. No. It's just… It's very high."

"Yes. It is great. From this height, everything seems small and unimportant. You should have a look."

"No, thanks", he replies.

The woman turns around. "I'll close the window. I guess that limits the danger of falling out to zero", she says, sounding amused.

He avoids her gaze. "I'll go without. I'll just trust your comment on this."

"Wow. You're really scared, are you?" she asks, while she closes the window. "And I always thought Federal Agents were fearless."

It's meant to be teasing, but the way he frowns makes her realize she just scratched a sensitive spot.

"I told you I wasn't the prime example for an FBI agent", he replies defensively.

The woman blinks her eyes, irritated by his tone. "I'm not judging you."

He looks at her shortly, then fixes his gaze on his glass.

_Great, Kate. Really, really, great. If you go on like that, he's just going to kick your ass in seconds._

"I am sorry… I did not mean to…" she adds, though, actually, she's not sure what to say. This is a lot more complicated than she expected. A lot more complicated than she hoped.

His eyes still avoid her as he sits down in the lonely chair beneath the fridge. "It's alright. You're right. Federal Agents should be tougher. But well, seems I'm not."

She hesitates, then walks over slowly and places her flat palm on his left shoulder. His body tenses up as her hand touches him. "Everybody is afraid of something. And personally, I think that it sounds a lot more logical to fear heights than to fear butterflies."

Finally, his eyes meet hers again. "The insects or the ones in your stomach?" he asks calmly.

Startled, she withdraws her hand and steps back.

_Uh, who's tensed up now, girl?_

"I am sorry. That was… blunt", he says.

"No, not blunt", she says slowly. "That was very psychological."

He shrugs his shoulders. "Yeah. Maybe."

She turns around and, without asking, sits down on the edge of the bed. His eyes follow her, but he does not object.

"The insects", she says, stretching her legs a little. "Just the insects. The ones in my stomach are kept away very well by my job. All the traveling is not really compatible with… romance, or serious relationships."

"Do you mind it?" he asks.

"No", she says and looks at him. "And you? Would you rather stay in Washington instead of investigating all over the country?"

He shakes his head slowly. "No. Washington means paperwork. Usually."

"Paperwork. How unfortunate", she says and smiles.

"Maybe I will adapt to it, one day. When I feel the wish to settle down."

She eyes him. "Don't take this personally, but you don't look like you wish to settle down."

"Well, even Holly Golightly settled down, in the end", he says elusively.

"You're really a fan of her, are you?" she asks.

He shrugs his shoulders. "I like old movies."

She leans back a little. "I still don't get it why you called me Holly, though. I don't resemble her a lot."

"You've got the same eye color", he says and his eyes focus on her.

"Technically impossible. Eye colors are unique. And mine's not really that astonishing. Just a mixture of green and brown."

"It's beautiful", he says and hesitates. "You are beautiful."

She raises an eyebrow. _Oh, wow. A compliment. Miracles really happen._

He holds her gaze for some seconds, then stands up. "I am sorry. I did not mean to..." He pauses, unsure how to go on. "I… Would you excuse me for a second? I'd like to wash my hands. I think I… spilled a little bit of the vodka."

And before she can even reply, he walks around the corner and disappears in the bathroom.

Startled, she remains where she is, blinking her eyes.

_God, how cute. He really thinks you are a good one, does he? _the voice asks ironically. _But well, since you are not, why don't we cut off the talking? I think it's time for a strike out of the blue, don't you agree, darling?_

* * *

Norman Jayden washes his face with cold water, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he grabs for the towel.

_Shit, why did I just say that?_

Stupid question. He knows the answer, of course. As soon as she set feet in his hotel room, his imagination had _jumped _on all the possibilities the presence of a woman offered. Naturally. After a year of solitude, a year in which he had only focused on the work, his body is tempted easily; by a pair of beautiful eyes, the feeling of her hand on his shoulder and the picture of her in his bed.

_I should have never taken her with me. _

But well, the clock can't be turned back and he has to face the consequences of his actions. Has to face that, behind his political correctness, behind his reserved façade, a part of him wants her naked in his sheets. With her hands and lips all over him. A part of him wants her to prove he is still human, because lately, it seems to him as if the ARI cuts out everything except the work.

Human needs, like sleep, or hunger; visible if he would look up at his reflection one time – but he never does. And human desires. Like sex.

Not that he has been on the prowl before ARI came up and took control over his life. There have been women, yes – accidentally acquaintances in a bar – but only two or three and, in all honesty, he can't really remember them.

All he remembers is the awkwardness in the morning, when he used to sneak out of their apartments (he always ended up in their bed, protecting his privacy) to avoid any… complications.

The ARI limited this kind of encounters to zero and he never realized he missed them. First, he had been simply blinded by all the possibilities the sunglasses enabled. How much faster he had been able to solve the cases. And then, only two months later, he had been busy dealing with his own moral scruples as his hand had wrapped around his first blue phial of cherub-like rescue and eternal damnation.

And now he stands here, in the bathroom, his palms sweaty and his mind racing with the stupid but urgent wish for her to stay. Not because she is special, or different or beautiful, just because she is there. A breathing proof that somewhere, behind the mathematic codes, behind the psychological formulas, he is still able to connect to reality.

Of course, nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen because he's not drunk enough to ask her to stay and she is not interested enough to suggest it.

He takes a deep breath and looks at his watch. It's 11:34 p.m. He has paid her drinks and she has gotten her picture. He'll suggest calling a cab for her. His debts are paid. There is no reason for her to stay any longer. They both have to get up early tomorrow. He'll call the cab and she'll be gone in a quarter. He'll probably have another look on the clues as soon as she is away, before he'll try to get some sleep.

He opens the door and walks back into the room, ready to follow the plan, as his eyes fall on her and his feet stop immediately.

The woman sits on the hotel bed with nothing on but black underwear. He stares at her, his expression puzzled.

"You're naked", he forces out, his throat suddenly very dry. _Holy shit._

"Not entirely", she replies calmly.

Speechless, he stands still. _Damn it, how can she be so calm? _He tries to read her, his eyes locked to hers, but there's nothing in her expression explaining… this.

He quickly counts the amount of her drinks, just to dismiss the thought of blaming it to alcohol. While his mind is still rushing, searching for an explanation, his eyes already wander over the perfectly shaped, invitingly naked body.

She is flawless, at least, his overloaded mind cannot detect any flaw. The idea of calling her a cab is irrevocably lost and it takes him ages to realize that he is still starring at her, without saying anything. He looks up, just to see how she raises her eyebrow.

"Shall I get dressed?" she asks.

"Yes", he says, but only a second later corrects himself. "No."

_Oh, fuck. _

"I'm sorry… It's just… I mean I didn't invite you to… Well…" he stutters. He hates it. The stuttering. Though he fights it, it catches him whenever he is desperately confused, or desperately angry.

She has taken him by surprise. Totally.

He runs his fingers through his hair, still completely out of words. He probably looks like the rabbit before the snake, because suddenly, she stands up.

"I see", she says and walks passed him to the chair. "I apologize for the misunderstanding", she adds and takes her shirt.

"Wait", he says and it sounds way too eager and way too fast.

_Oh, god damn it. _

She turns around, the shirt still in her right hand, her expression irritated.

"It's just… I don't do that, generally. I'm a workaholic… I mean, I haven't been on a date in months and…"

_And what? I suck at these things? You don't really just wanted to say that, did you? Idiot!_

"I've been on a few dates, if that calms you", she states.

"Er… No. No, actually, it doesn't", he replies.

And it is the truth. It doesn't. She's beautiful, she's self-assured and she is most certainly used to date men wooing her in every possible way, until she lies breathlessly in the sheets, her tanned skin covered with sweat and satisfaction.

_Wrong way, Norman. Thinking about her sweaty in your sheets. Wrong way._

Silence falls between them, until she finally asks: "Am I embarrassing you?"

He stares at her, again. She's still polite. She's standing there, probably freezing, exposed and certainly with ruined expectations, but she is still polite.

"No. You're not. I'm embarrassing myself, I guess. I am sorry", he hurries to say.

Her eyes are focused on the shirt in her hand.

"Kate?" he asks.

"I'm sorry", she says. "I am… a little bit confused." She pauses and mutters. "Yes. Confused." She shakes her head slowly.

Out of an impulse, he walks over and touches her wrist. "Look, it's my fault, I…" he starts.

She turns slightly and looks at his hand on her skin and he lets go immediately.

"Sorry. I'm really sorry", he says and wants to back up, as her hands reach up for his collar and all of a sudden, she kisses him.

Her lips are soft, a lot softer than her grip. He closes his eyes and lays his hands carefully at her hips, right above the bones. Her skin is way too warm, or maybe his hands are just too cold.

Since the blue phials came into his life, he is always freezing.

Either way, their body temperature is not compatible. It's contrasting. It is the final sign to stop, to avoid the mess, cornering him like a pack of wolves.

The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, just a slight hint of it, but he can smell it now, since she is so close to him, closer than anybody else in the whole last year.

Maybe his abstinence is the reason why his senses react so over-sensitive, why she sends a shiver down his back just by parting his lips. Actually, the kiss is not overwhelmingly passionate, or fierce. It feels like a first try on a new drink, a careful consideration of how to proceed.

His body already knows how it wants to proceed. His breathing is shallow, his pupils dilated, his senses drawn to her. His body demands her and denies bowing to logic, or common sense, or prediction. It only bows to her touch, her hard grip, her soft lips.

She ends the kiss and he swallows hard, trying to hide the sudden, unwanted urgency; the wish to rip her clothes off and place frenzied kisses all over her body.

Their eyes meet and hers are really the most intriguing ones he has ever seen, so colorful and yet, so blank, keeping her thoughts locked away from him safely.

Her hands let go off his collar and for some awkward, awful seconds, nothing happens. Then she steps forward and kisses him again, her hands loosely on his shoulders.

Only this time, the kiss is fucking earnest. Determined. Just the way he wanted to kiss her.

A strain of her hair tickles his cheek and he raises his hands, tucking it back behind her ears, only to mess it up by running his fingers through its sleekness.

She undoes his tie and throws it down on the chair, while their tongues tangle with each other mindlessly. He can still taste the aroma of the gin, but it's covered by a note of fresh peppermint.

_Shit, I should have taken the chance to brush my teeth, _he thinks, but it's too late now and the way her lips capture his makes him believe she doesn't mind.

His hands run down her spine as he presses her even closer, withdrawing his lips, placing a wet kiss on the sensitive spot beneath her ear. She takes a deep breath, her hands reaching for his blazer and it goes down to the floor.

Her fingers nestle with his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers, unbuttoning it with fast and trained movements. It falls down, just like the undershirt only seconds later. The merciless light of the ceiling exposes his pale skin tone, lightening up the contrast to hers cruelly. He catches her eyes running over his bare chest and interrupts her study with a hard kiss. His hands at her waist, he forces her backwards, until her legs meet the bed and she loses balance, pulling him with her.

The fall is uncoordinated; his chin crushes against her forehead, sending a short, painful impulse through his jaw. She groans and lays her hand on the hurting spot.

_Oh, fantastic. Absofuckinglutely fantastic. _

"Sorry… I'm really…", he starts, but her hand moves between his shoulder blades and forces him down for a kiss, cutting off his apology.

His hands on her ribcage feel hot and sweaty, a welcome change to the cold sweats torturing his body when he is late for the Tripto.

He can hear the sound of her shoes meeting the floor as she kicks them off and tries the same, only he has laced them up too tight. He rises, attempting to turn around and take them off properly, but she flips him over in a quick movement.

She smirks as she sees his surprise, then bends back and pulls off his shoes. Moving up to his upper legs, she leans forward and her lips trace slowly over his stomach. He stretches out his arms and nestles with the clasp of her bra like a teenager.

As he finally succeeds, she wriggles it off her shoulders and throws it backwards carelessly.

Her breasts are smaller than he expected, but firm and well-shaped. His hands trace further up her ribcage until his palms cover the smooth skin. She shudders slightly as his thumbs circle over her nipples and her swollen lips reclaim his mouth fiercely.

Her fingers trace down to his belt and open it, together with the button of his trousers. She pulls down the zipper and her fingertips move right inside his pants. His body tenses up and he takes a sharp intake of breath as she runs teasingly over the very small line between the edge of his pants and his cock.

He wraps his arms around her small back and forces her down, her hot flesh pressed to his own, his tongue darting inside her mouth. The woman removes her hands and runs them through his hair; their tongues already sleeping with each other. He is panting heavily now, using each break in the kisses to catch for air. His hard cock presses against her groin and he wants to pull down her pants, stop wasting time and just get it going.

She withdraws her lips and slides her body down, finally removing his trousers. He wants to pull her back up, but she shakes his hands off and gets out of the bed.

He blinks, irritated, as she takes off the last remaining piece of her clothing. She walks over to her purse, turns back around and throws a condom into his direction.

He raises and pulls down his pants, struggling to open the wrap, eventually succeeding.

Then she is back in his bed, her hands at his shoulders, pushing him backwards. He pulls her with him for a last, wet kiss. As she lowers her hips and he slides into her, his hands grip for her waist. He closes his eyes as she starts to ride him slowly, his breathing quick and shallow. His heart is pounding way too fast and he arches against her longingly; forcing her to quicken the pace. As she rocks her body hard against his, they finally get a rhythm going. He tightens the grip on her hips and his feet cling onto the sheets.

The woman rotates her hips and he bites his lips to suppress a moan. He can feel it coming already, though they just started. His overloaded nerves have already capitulated and he wriggles against her, trying to slow her down.

"Wait…" he forces out, his body tensing up. "Kate…" he adds, but it is too late for any reserve.

The end is just as rushed as the beginning. He comes hard against her, an unavoidable, shuddering moan escaping his lips.

He opens his eyes, but closes them again as he sees the surprise in her expression. He removes his sweaty hands off her hips, as the woman slows down her rhythm to final stop. She gets off and leans her back against the headboard on the right side of the bed.

The room falls silent as he tries to regain control of his breathing, his eyes still closed.

She tucks her hair back behind her ears and looks at him. "You're alright?"

He sighs and opens his eyes. "Yeah. Sure", he replies, but does not turn towards her.

Instead, he frees himself from the slick condom, holding it between his fingertips, his expression slightly disgusted.

"Would you mind if I went to the bathroom first?" he asks and finally, looks at her, at least, for a brief second.

She shrugs her shoulders. "I've got no hurry."

Her words sound ambiguous and he can feel his cheeks redden as he steps out of the bed and hurries into the bathroom. He throws the condom in the toilette, but it takes three flushes until it finally disappears. He washes his trembling hands and wishes he had just called her the stupid cab instead of making a complete fool of himself. Like usually. No, like always when he interacts with people. He breaks his own rule and looks into the mirror, grimacing as he sees his reflection

_Fuck.  
_

Frustration and anger creeps up on him and he thinks of just remaining in the bathroom, until she loses her patience and decides to leave.

But that would be even more embarrassing and rude, since she surely wants to use the bathroom as well. He wishes he had taken new pants with him. Not that it makes any difference. Clothes cannot cover his exposure. With a last glance at his reflection, he walks back into the room. The woman has already taken her purse, obviously waiting for her turn.

"May I?" she asks calmly.

He only nods his head and walks over to his suitcase.

* * *

The woman puts her purse on the ground as she closes the bathroom door.

_Now that was easy, _the voice says. _And quick._ It giggles. It really giggles. _Jesus, I bet he's going to apologize for his rush. Remember the look on his face when…"_

"Shut up!" the woman growls and rubs her temples. Shit. Shit, shit shit!

_Oh, come on now, you don't want to blame yourself for his inadequacy, do you? _

"I said: shut up!" she repeats more forceful, hoping the walls are thick enough to shelter her monologue.

She opens the water tap, cooling her heated face with her hands.

It's all wrong. It started with the confusion, the real confusion to his reaction as she was sitting naked on his bed, followed by the surprising eagerness after the first kiss and it ended with his clear embarrassment after the act.

This is not how she has outlined it. Fuck, this is not how sex goes. It's usually her taking the guy for distraction and the guy taking her as trophy cup. They both get what they want, what they agreed on and there's nothing lingering afterwards, nothing weighting the air, like apologies and doubts and evasive glances.

The plan has been to fuck him to oblivion, but everything went pear-shaped, just everything, right from the very first god damn second.

_Ow, how touching. Is this regret, honey? Or just the old fear you might end up in hell?_ the voice says ironically.

"Regret. Yeah, sure", she snaps.

But there's really something nagging inside her, something behind all the Emily's and the Faye's, behind all her rehearsed behaviors.

_Okay, let me tell you something, sweetie: First, there's a very easy way to deal with the remorse. Just go back in and convince him that everything is fine, that it's not as bad as he think. I mean, after all, we've had worse than that, didn't we? And honey, really, I doubt this little misdemeanor adds much to your fate. So just go on with the show. I mean, you don't want to end up in another dirty alley, do you? You want to be back in game, so, get your ass out of the bathroom and play your role. _

The voice is right. Of course it is. But the nagging feeling won't leave and despite all her efforts, she can't move, can't raise her hands off the water basin.

_You know what this is, Katie, _she can hear her father say. _This feeling. It's the truth creeping up on you. This is not you, Katie. You're losing who you are in this stupid battle. You cannot go on like that, poisoning your soul with revenge and hate. You have to stop, Katie. You have to stop now._

She looks up into the mirror and for a second, she can see her. For a second, the woman is gone. For a second, the reflection is herself – desperate, beaten, strangled, alone, grieving.

She turns her gaze away and her grip on the basin is so hard now that her knuckles shine white.

Her heart beats merciless against her chest, while her feet wish urgently to get out of the room, out of the hotel, out of the country…

But she cannot stop. She has already crossed the turning point. The pawn has made its move. There is no way out.

She blinks her eyes and looks into the mirror. The mask is back in place. The voice of her father, the image of herself, is locked away safely again.

The woman opens her purse, takes out the new underwear and gets dressed. She turns around and walks back into the room. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, redressed completely, except for the blazer and the tie. His hand is wrapped around another glass of vodka.

"Hey", she says in her casual tone, leaning against the wall.

"Hey", he replies, emptying the glass.

"Why did you redress?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Thought it would be adequate."

His gaze is still hidden from her. For a brief second, she does not know how to continue. Usually, in the aftermath, she finds herself wrapped in the sweaty sheets, not standing in the middle of the room.

"Well… I guess I should leave", she finally says and collects her clothes from the floor.

He turns his head and looks at her. "Do you always carry a set of new underwear around in your purse?"

The woman lifts her shirt of the ground and hesitates, before she turns around and looks at him.

"Yes", she states calmly.

Silence falls between them.

"So… You do this often, do you?" he asks.

She tries to interpret his tone, but since his gaze is fixed back on his glass, she doesn't succeed.

"Occasionally", she admits.

"Occasionally?" he asks.

"Yes."

"And that means?"

"That I occasionally have sex", she says a little bit unnerved and looks at him. "Like everybody. Except for nuns and children and…"

"FBI agents?" he suggests.

She stares at him. "If you say so."

The woman walks over and puts on her jeans and shoes as he laughs out shortly and pours himself another drink.

"Yeah, if I say so", he says ironically.

She rolls her eyes and sighs, then walks over and takes the glass out of his hand.

"What…" he starts, as she opens the window and empties the drink.

"I think it is enough, don't you agree?" she asks casually and closes the window. "You'll catch no one in the morning if you continue like this."

"I can take care of myself, thank you", he says and grabs the bottle.

"Like in Charlottesville?" she asks.

He frowns, then drinks right out of the bottle.

"Oh, god damn it", she swears and walks over, ripping the bottle out of his hand.

He grabs for her wrist and pulls her back forcefully. The woman stumbles and loses balance; the bottle slips out of her hands and breaks as it hits the floor. She falls down upon him, back into the sheets.

"You could have just said you want to go for another time", she says, as aloof as ever. "Then I wouldn't have dressed."

"I doubt you'd make the same mistake twice", he replies.

"I wasn't aware I made a mistake", she says.

"You are a liar", he states frankly.

"And you are an idiot", she gives back.

They stare at each other for ages, before his hands reach out for her face and their lips meet once more for a slow, gentle kiss.

Though the kiss is nothing compared to the ones they sharedbefore, she breaks it very quickly. He still holds her face in his hands.

"I want to see you again", he says, all of a sudden.

She raises an eyebrow. "Sorry. I don't do repetitions", she says elusively.

"Of meeting somebody or of sleeping with somebody?" he asks.

"Both."

"Why?"

She rises and gets out of the bed. "Because this always leads to complications. And I don't like complications."

"But you've already made an exception", he states as she walks over to her purse and checks her belongings.

"Oh, really?" she asks and takes her coat and scarf.

"Yeah. You've met me twice."

"Hospital visits don't count", she says casually and walks over to the door.

"You cannot make exceptions from exceptions."

She turns around and looks at him. He can see how she hesitates, quarrels with herself.

"Alright, then", she finally gives in. "Send me a message."

* * *

**So, here it is. The smutty part. I really did it. I can't believe it.  
**

**Please review. Flame me, if you feel like it sucked.  
**

**By the way, has anyone noticed that Nathaniel, the crazy guy, has two toothbrushes? Why the hell does Nathaniel need two of them? **


	6. Kings

"_The chessboard is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the  
Universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature  
and the player on the other side is hidden from us"  
(Thomas Huxley)_

**Chapter 6: Kings**

The king owns eleven chessboards, all differing in seize and value. He moves all the chess pieces at the exact time, avoiding delays.

The inferior refer to him as _the strategist. _They believe his sharp minded logic and his infinite knowledge provide him with ingenious plans, the reason for his power.

But they are nothing but fools. Pathetic, stupid fools. They must be pitied.

It is the common mistake of people nowadays. Everyone aims to see the big picture, filling their heads with useless formulas and information. They gather everything they catch a glimpse on, causing a terrible mess in the beautiful order of the mind, taking themselves away from their aim faster than the speed of light.

It is not about wisdom. It is not about strategies. It is never about the big picture.

It is about noticing the details. Instead of focusing on everything, you have to focus on the details not matching. A reversed puzzle.

The king is a master of reversed puzzles. He notices every detail. Every time. Everywhere. This alone gives him the possibility to thwart plans in seconds and burn kingdoms with just a wave of his hand.

_The tiny stain of ink on a hand._

_The sweat on collars._

_The blinking of eyes._

_The delay of calls._

_And the missing booking of a hotel room._

**Pittsburgh. Rochester. North Charleston. And finally, Indianapolis.**

Overnight stays in expensive hotels are the puzzle.

No charge of a credit card, no withdrawal of money, no check-in at the reception are the mismatching pieces.

Flights are attended. Trains are attended. But the hotel rooms appear out of nowhere.

The king folds his hands and rests his chin on his fingers.

She's still a ghost. Sneaking under the electrical field. Fooling the world with every breath she takes. With every step.

Except him.

He knows her completely. He knows how her mind works. How her body moves. He knows what she feels.

Every secret, every part of her life is memorized in his mind.

It had been the price she had had to pay. And she had accepted on her own, free will, years ago. A little bit too eager, like always. It's a little flaw, but well, the small things always strangle you in the end.

His thoughtful gaze is focused on the chessboard in front of him. The black pieces are lined up at their starting position, all of them, except a pawn and a bishop. The bishop is located on the other end of the chessboard, where usually, you would find the white king. The pawn stands motionless four grids away, on the left.

Right beneath the chessboard lays the white queen and a white knight, captured. The rest of the white chess pieces are still hidden in the box; the box he opens now. He takes out a white pawn, indecisive for a moment.

It does not match.

His eyes travel to the picture on his desk. Brown hair. Green eyes. No remarkable features. Distance covering vulnerability.

He remembers his last encounter with her and shakes his head in silent disapproval.

This is not about distraction. This is interfering. And he has told her not to interfere.

The price for disobedience is high in his world.

He adds the white pawn to the chessboard, right in the position where the black pawn can strike him with only one move.

He offers her a last chance. If she gets rid of him, he will allow her to go on. He will allow her to go her way, without any disturbances.

If she refrains, he will be forced to act. He will be forced to add another piece to the chessboard and capture his own pawn.

And he will do it without regrets.

**A short chapter, I know. As far as I can see it now, there will be two or three more until the first big bang. Yes. **


	7. Red butterflies

**As always, I like to thank my readers for the constant support. This chapter is rather short, but we're getting closer and closer to the revelation of Kate's surname... And more...**

"_When you're strange, faces come out of the rain  
When you're strange, no one remembers your name  
When you're strange…"_

_(The doors – people are strange)_

**Chapter 7: Red butterflies**

_Indianapolis, Tuesday 7__th__ June 2011 _

The hotel room is under water. Waves break, fishes romp about the bed. Norman Jayden stares at the scenario in a mixture of confusion and fear.

_But I took it off – I just took it off!_

He looks at his right hand and there it is, it is in his hand, so how the fuck can there be water in his hotel room? He blinks his eyes, over and over and the image slowly fades out.

He takes a deep breath and places the ARI on the desk. It's never been like that before. He has never _seen_ things without the ARI. They warned him about it, though. The scientist and the doctor. They said it was possible to happen, but very unlikely. Only because of overuse.

He sighs and rubs his temples. The headache is worse than ever, so is the tremor in his hands.

He turns his head and his eyes fall on the tube of triptocaine on the bedside table. His mind pleads him longingly to take it, but he denies. He usually takes one dose every 24 hours, but he has to postpone this one if he doesn't want to be all shaky and sweaty when she arrives tomorrow evening.

It's the third time since Pittsburgh and he still does not know why she agreed again. Why she agreed at all, after the disastrous events in Pittsburgh.

Not that Rochester has been a lot better. And North Charleston – well, a little, maybe. He spent a lot of time exploring her body in North Charleston, writing down a perfect schedule for their interaction in his mind. But while he followed his plan, she followed no plan at all. Her spontaneity kicked his effort in its ass.

He does not understand her motive. His motive is clear to him – her visits are the only distraction he owns. The blessing of an hour in which he does not think about psychopaths, victims, investigations and drugs.

Maybe it's the same for her. Maybe her visits are the only break she takes from work, the only 60 minutes in which she is not hurrying to catch a plane, or sitting in a conference room, or trying to persuade someone to take a new job. Maybe they are just two workaholics offering each other a break.

He risks a brief look at his watch. 11:42 p.m. He has used the ARI for over six hours. No wonder he sees fishes in his bed. Not mentioning that it has been a complete waste of time. Except the file and the psychoanalysis he has nothing. Nothing to go on from.

He looks at the picture on the desk, showing the nine year old Jonathan Fairmont. His mother gave it to him, on Monday, as he interrogated her.

The boy is blond, like his mother. His brown eyes smile brightly. He wears his school uniform. He wore it on the day he was abducted, too.

His parents received no ransom demand. Whoever abducted him is not interested in money. A bad sign.

It's the first time he chases a pedophile and it creeps him out. It's easy to be inside a killer's head, but he finds it almost impossible to be inside a pedophile's head.

Five days. The boy is missing for five days. He needs to make progress. He needs to make it fast.

He rises from the chair and walks over to the bed. His hand wraps around the blue phial. There's a whisper, somewhere in his mind, a whisper trying to persuade him to withstand – but it is too hollow, too vague.

The blue powder rushes through his body. Blocks the headache, the tiredness. And makes room for the ARI.

* * *

_Indianapolis, Wednesday 7__th__ June 2011 _

The boy is dead. Strangled, like the others. Dumped in the bushes, like the others. His mother cries. His father rages.

Norman Jayden feels nothing as they find the boy. The kid's eyes stare into the beautiful blue sky. A red butterfly sits on his exposed left thigh, as if there is nothing wrong in the almost peaceful scenario.

Nothing, except the blood and the bruises.

He investigates the crime scene carefully, thoroughly. The ARI memorizes every important detail. When he is finished, he leaves the corpse to the coroner. It is half past five. Instead of heading for his office, he decides for his hotel room. The sun burns down merciless and the police have given him an office with a large window front that turns into a sauna in this weather.

He is still perfectly calm as he drives back to the hotel, though it takes a lot of time. It's rush hour.

The receptionist greets him with a bright smile as he walks past her, but he doesn't even see it. As he arrives in his room, he throws the gun holster carelessly on the bed and walks over to the desk, ready to take out the ARI. But just as he does, his eyes fall on the picture of the boy, his vivid image and his hand stops in its movement.

The boy will never smile again. He will never again act like his mother's embrace embarrasses him, though he loves it when she cuddles him. He will never again play football, or basketball, or ride a bicycle. He will never have a first drink. A first kiss. He will never graduate.

And it's his entire fault.

The ARI falls down on the desk as he buries his face in his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes. He has failed. The first time in his life, he has failed.

His hand travels into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the tube of triptocaine. His fingers start to shake as he opens the phial. He takes one dose and waits for the tremor to go away, but it doesn't.

He stares at the phial, at the two remaining doses.

_I have to catch him. I have to catch him – at any cost._

He takes the second dose, and the third. The world turns blurry and he feels the urgent wish to vomit. He blinks his eyes, tries to shake the sickness off. Eventually, he succeeds and finally, puts on the ARI.

* * *

The woman takes a cab from her tiny, old-fashioned hotel to his modern, distinguished one, like always. The asphalt's shimmering heat whispers old tales of motorbike tours into her ears; memories of excessive speed and the long lost scent of leather clothes.

For the first time, she wonders what has happened to her former belongings. Maybe they were burnt. Or sold. Either way, she is sure none of them still exist. When kings delete you, they are always meticulous.

The cab holds and she shakes the thoughts off as she walks over to the reception. It feels almost normal now. So ordinary that she has forgotten her brief encounter with her conscience. She takes the elevator up to the ninth floor and walks down the hallway until she reaches the right room number.

She knocks two times and waits. One minute. Two. Three.

The woman raises an eyebrow and knocks again. No reaction.

She searches her purse for her cell phone to check if he has sent her a message, but nothing. Not sure how to proceed, she takes a step backwards, though the thought of leaving repels her. It always repels her when she acts in vain. The mobile still in her right hand, she considers her options, then dials his number.

She can hear his mobile ring through the closed doors. Irritated, she hangs up again.

"What the…" she mumbles, but just in that moment, he opens the door.

"Room service", she says calmly.

_Room service?_ the voice asks. _Girl, you know how this sounds like, do you?_

Yes, she knows how it sounds like. It sounds like the truth.

He looks at her – well, at least she thinks he looks at her, for the mysterious glasses hide his eyes – and says: "You."

"Yes, me", she replies.

His fingers, hidden under some kind of black glove, tap nervously at the door frame. "I forgot."

He doesn't ask her to come in.

_Guess we really came in vain this time, honey._

She withstands the urge to nod her head at the voice.

"I am sorry", she says. "I did not mean to interrupt you."

His lips curl into the perfect grimace of a smile. "You don't."

"You're not working?"

"No", he replies.

She raises an eyebrow. "So – do you let me in?"

He steps away from the door and she walks straight in, towards the desk. She puts her purse down on the floor and takes her jacket odd. Her eyes spot the picture of the boy. She leans forward to take it, as he grabs her wrist and pulls her close. Her eyes rise to his automatically, but the black lenses of the glasses are opaque.

It is seductive, in a way. His features appear more… fierce, angular.

Interesting.

Yet, it is just as disturbing.

As he bends down and kisses her, his lips feel ridiculously cold, sending a shiver down her spine. The kiss is surprisingly fierce, too fierce for his usual insecurity. He forces her backwards and into the bed. Before she even has a chance to touch him, her shirt and jeans go off and his mouth places feverish, messy kisses on her skin. To her own astonishment, it makes her feel uncomfortable. Normally, she enjoys encounters like that, encounters that don't give her any time to think, but this behavior does not suit him.

Something is different. Something is wrong.

"Jayden", she says, but he does not react.

"Jayden!" she repeats forcefully and grabs for his shoulders.

He raises his head. "Yeah?"

She tries to read his expression, but the god damn glasses hide everything.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"Of course. I'm fine", he replies and bends down to continue, but she doesn't loosen her grip.

"Liar", she states calmly.

He raises his gaze back to her and she uses the opportunity to take off the glasses.

"No – wait…" he contradicts, but the ARI is already in her hands.

"Your eyes are red", she says and he attempts to turn his head away, but her hands move to his cheeks immediately, her eyes searching for his.

"What's wrong with you?" she asks.

"Nothing", he replies and blinks rapidly, while her gaze lingers on him for an eternity.

"Jayden", she says slowly. "Are you high?"

"What? No, Of course not", he replies defensively and attempts to free himself from her grip. Futile.

"Oh yes, you are."

He looks at her, his gaze annoyed, even hostile. Her eyes shine with surprise.

"How the hell…" she starts, but he cuts her off.

"Let me go", he says and she finally loosens her grip.

He grabs the ARI and gets out of the bed. He hesitates, then walks over to her clothes on the ground and throws them over to her.

"Get dressed and get out", he snarls.

She stares at him, eyes wide with disbelieve. "What?"

"I said: get dressed", he repeats angrily.

"Oh, and if I don't you'll throw me out naked?"

"Yeah, I will."

The woman laughs, but it sounds insecure.

"I'm dead serious. Get your ass out of my hotel room", he says forcefully.

For a second, she is too surprised to say or do anything. Then, out of an impulse, she takes the pillow and throws it at him.

"Asshole", she snaps and jumps out of the bed. She collects her jeans and shirt and puts them on.

"Did you just throw a pillow at me?" he asks in disbelief.

"Yes and I would advise you to shut up before I throw something at you that is able to smash your head!" she replies angrily and fetches her shoes. "Though you obviously already smashed your head with some pills or powder or whatever."

"I'm not a junkie!" he exclaims.

She takes her purse. "I really doubt your superiors would agree on that."

His eyes narrow. "It's a medication."

"Oh yeah. Medication my ass!" she growls and takes her jacket.

"The FBI invented it!"

"Congratulations. Doesn't change the fact you look like a god damn druggie", she replies sarcastically and attempts to walk to the door, as he suddenly grabs her arm.

"If you think you can blackmail me, then…", he starts, but the woman interrupts him.

"Take your hands off me. Now", she says and her voice is dangerously low.

His grip on her arm tightens. "Did you hear me?"

"Jayden, let me go. Or…"

"Or what? You'll scream? Try it", he says and for a second, she just stares at him, dazzled.

"Jayden…"

"You're not going to say anything. Say it!"

Her expression changes to pure contempt. "Why would I say anything?" she asks loathingly. "Blow your fancy head up. I don't give a damn."

He removes his hand and answers in the same, bitter tone: "Sorry. I forgot you only came for one reason, Miss _Get-me-laid-already-my-flight-is-so-early_."

"You know what? Why don't you just fuck yourself?" she snaps and slams the door as she walks out.

He swirls around angrily and kicks the chair into the corner. "Fuck!" he swears and grabs the edge of the table. The picture of Jonathan Fairmont stares at him in reproach. His hands shake as he takes it and tears it into pieces. The scraps of paper fall down and create a gravity of guilt that pulls him down to the floor as well. He wraps his arms around his knees and closes his eyes, his heart pounding hard against his chest. Only three hours earlier, he has sworn to catch the killer at any cost. But now, as the headache and the tremor and the cold sweat take over his body, he finally surrenders to the truth: he cannot pay the price.

* * *

**Uh uh, looks like there's trouble in paradise...****  
**

**But don't worry, we'll have a kind of reunion before Kate finally shows her true face. And the king will pay a visit soon, too.  
**


	8. Lies

**A/N: Thanks for reviews, favs and follows. I admit, this chapter has been a pain in the ass, but nevertheless, I hope you like it. **

_"Lies and secrets (...), they are like a cancer in the soul.  
They eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind."  
_

_(Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince)  
_

**Chapter 8: Lies**

_New York City, Wednesday 24__th__ august 2011_

The woman lies in a strange bed in a strange apartment and a strange man snorts right next to her and keeps her awake. She does not remember his name, though she has said it probably half an hour ago. He doesn't matter. He is of no use to her. Lately, nobody is of any use to her, not even FBI agents.

Drugs. Even now, after two months, she can't believe it.

_Well, _the voice says_, you have to admit, it is a great recruitment slogan – "Join the FBI and get free drugs!"_

Her lips twist into a small grin, but it fades as soon as it appears.

All her effort, all her sacrifice – in vain. She hasn't received a single message since Indianapolis and she doubts she'll get one. And even if she would, she would probably not react. Of all the agents in the world, she had to meet the quivering wreck. The fickle finger of fate really adores her.

The woman sighs and closes her eyes. She should have listened to the voice, in Charlottesville. Instead of clinging on the stupid little thing called hope, she should have just ended everything.

The king is right. She always makes the same mistakes.

She presses her palms at her ears, to cut out the snoring, but of course, she does not succeed. Unnerved, she rises partially and shots a glance at the sleeping man next to her, but that doesn't stop him from disturbing her sleep, either.

_This is unbearable, _she thinks and gets up.

Slowly, she maneuvers through the darkness to collect her clothes and belongings.

_I'll just dress up in the bathroom – if I am able to find it – and then I'll get the hell out of here and back to my hotel._

Just as she finishes her search and heads towards the bedroom door, a buzzing sound disturbs the silence.

It takes her some seconds to realize that the sound is made by her cell phone and it takes her some more seconds to overcome the surprise and hurry out of the bedroom, before the man awakes. She takes the door right across and, by luck, ends up in the bathroom. Her clothes fall down to the floor as she searches her purse for her cell phone.

"Who the hell…" she says as she finally finds it and the display reveals the nuisance.

_Jayden calling._

"Boy, you got a sense for timing", she mutters.

_Well, instead of complaining, you could just hang up, honey, _the voice says sarcastically, but the woman does not listen; she just stares at the display.

_Oh god, hell no!_ the voice growls. _You just can't listen, can you?_

"Yes", she answers the phone, her tone very reserved.

For the blink of an eye, the line is silent. She looks at the display, to make sure she didn't miss the call, then sighs and repeats: "Hello?"

"Kate?" the familiar voice finally replies.

"No", she says. "Her Majesty the Queen."

_Oh, how very creative! You are such a joker; such a brilliant, blasting comedian…_

"I'm sorry, I… Did I disturb you?"

Her lips curl into another, twisted smile. _No_, she thinks, _you would have disturbed me half an hour ago._

But, of course, she does not say that. She is not that nasty… Or honest.

"Why would you disturb me?" she asks instead.

"Well… It's two o'clock in the morning."

"Really?" She looks at her watch and adds: "Indeed."

"I feared I'd wake you."

The woman raises an eyebrow. "Did you? Why did you call me then, in the middle of the night?"

"I… need to talk to you."

She sits down on the edge of the bathtub and crosses her legs. "Well, I'm listening."

"Not on the phone. In private."

_Ha ha ha! In private! Yes, sure! God damn it, will you finally hang up? You've just admitted __**your **__cleverly devised plan has failed, so hang up and stick to __**our**__ plan, darling. It's the only one that will not fail. It's the only way out of this shitty mess you got yourself into by playing the guardian angel._

The woman hesitates. It's true. She has just condemned her own judgment, her methods, her tactics… but maybe, yes maybe, she has been too overeager, maybe there is still a chance…

_Chance? You have no chance! All you have is a gun and the little bit of a life the king presented you with. Face it, idiot!_

"Kate?"

She shakes her head to get rid of the voice and replies, automatically: "Yes?"

"I just want to talk to you."

The voice hides in its corner, reluctantly, as always and the woman takes a deep breath to regain her composure.

"Really?" she asks calmly. "Last time we met, I had the impression you wanted to make sure I remain silent."

_Like everybody else._

"No, no. I… I can explain…"

"Jayden, I don't really want an explanation", she says and realizes, astonished, she's just told the truth. She has no interest in his life story, his problems and all that psychological crap. She needs his connections, his position to get her back in the game, but actually, she is not sure he is the right expedient. Not anymore.

"Kate, I just want to apologize properly. Please, let me invite you for dinner…"

"I don't want an apology either", she states matter-of-factly.

The line falls silent. _Oh god, that's just a waste of time, _she thinks and just wants to hang up, as the door to the bathroom opens. The man stands in the door and stares at her, completely irritated.

"You're still here? I thought you had left", he says and doesn't sound too pleased to see her.

_Timing adores you as well, as it seems, _the voice calls out of its corner.

The woman clenches her teeth. "Excuse me", she says sarcastically. "Just give me one more moment and I'm gone."

He sighs, obviously annoyed, but nods his head. Yet, instead of leaving, he just keeps on standing in the doorway.

"A moment alone", she says and wonders if she has failed to notice his stupidity.

_God, it appears I really lost my judgment. _

He rolls his eyes, but disappears and closes the door.

She looks at her phone again, sure he hung up, but to her surprise, the call is still active.

She takes her purse. "Well, as I heard, I've got to go."

The line remains silent and she adds: "Good-bye."

Just as her finger reaches for the red receiver, he says: "No – wait... I'm in Baltimore. The Marriott hotel. I… Just think about it. That's all I'm asking. Think about it… Okay?"

For a second, she is completely irritated. _He can't have overheard, can he?_

"Okay", she replies slowly.

"Alright… Well… Good night."

"Good night", she says and hangs up.

She shakes her head in disbelief as she finally leaves the apartment and sets her feet on New York's illuminated streets. _Think about it, _the voice says and apes his intonation. _Well, he has certainly taken a liking on you, I must give you that. How unfortunate for him. How unfortunate indeed._

* * *

_Baltimore, Wednesday 24__th__ august 2011_

Norman Jayden lays the phone on his desk and blinks his eyes in confusion. It has taken him two months to make this call, two months in which he has tipped and deleted a dozen messages and now, his courage hasn't earned him anything. Except the final proof that the woman hasn't spent her life in solemn abstinence since their ways have parted.

It's not like he has expected her to. He has never lost a thought about her _normal _life, about the things she does when they are not together. Not before now.

_It's one thing to think, but it's another to see, _his mother's voice says gently. _Our mind tricks us. It can make a mountain out of a molehill, but it can also minimize incidents which mean more to us than we want to admit. Like medication side effects. Or a pair of brown-green eyes._

His eyes travel right to the ARI. _It's fine. I took care of that, _he thinks, though actually, it hasn't been him; it has been his superior, no, the bureau. He will never, never in his whole life, forget the awkward moment when special agent in charge Adam Petko had entered his hotel room in Indianapolis, after he had neither returned to the local police department, nor to the FBI. He had simply buried himself for three days under the white sheets, so high on tripto he hadn't been able to tell whether the woods, the lonely planet, the sea, the mountain top or the hotel room had been real.

The bureau had let him off the hook rather easily, though. He had had to endure thirty days in a special, secrete medical center of the FBI, where the doctors, the scientists and the psychologists had given him advice on a safe use of the ARI and the triptocaine, before they had send him back to Washington.

With the ARI. With the triptocaine. Stated fit for duty.

Nevertheless, Petko had kept him in Washington for another month, before he had sent him to Baltimore. Probably to make sure he wouldn't suffer a relapse.

He's doing fine right now. The investigation started two days ago and he took his first dose this evening. He even keeps track of the time he spends using the ARI and stops working with it when he reaches the time limit. Reluctantly, maybe, but he stops.

After all, he is pretty sure the ARI is the only reason he's still in duty. The bureau needs agents working with the prototype. They need to analyze the chances and the risks. They need…

_Laboratory rats, _his mother says.

He blinks his eyes and shakes his head slowly. _No, _he thinks. _It's not like that. It's an honor, they have only chosen the best agents to participate and…_

_And now they just want to get the right results, _his mother states calmly. _You said it yourself. If it wasn't for the ARI, you would have lost your badge. _

Her statement lingers heavily in his mind for some seconds, but he suppresses the rising thoughts immediately- he doesn't want to think about it. He simply doesn't. It's too complicated. Too complex.

He looks at his phone and checks for a new message, but of course, there is none. He sighs and leans back in the chair. Another complication he had not foreseen. He had regarded her as a distraction, nothing more, nothing less. He had thought he could easily replace their encounters with work. He had never considered the possibility that he had actually enjoyed their encounters _because _they had _cut off_ his work. Her presence had offered him a glimpse at life beyond work and, incredibly enough, he misses it. Or misses her. He doesn't know for sure. Doesn't know if he just wants to have back the distraction, or if he wants to have _her_ back.

Actually, the possibility scares him. It scares him that he might be drawn to her, drawn to a woman he has met only four times; a woman which has shared nothing with him, not even her surname. Nothing but kisses and husky moans in the dark.

It's like one of his cases, only that in this special one, the ARI is no use to him. Yet, he wants to solve it. He wants it so bad that he has overcome his insecurity and his shame and has called her. Probably in vain, since she has already found someone to spend her time with. Or maybe, he is just of her one-shot rendezvous and…

His phone buzzes and interrupts his thoughts. The symbol for a new message enlightens the display. He hesitates, then reads it. _Tomorrow, 7:30 p.m. Kate._

He stares at the short text for a ridiculous amount of time before he shuts down the phone. A small smile sneaks on his lips, but it disappears immediately as the memory of Indianapolis catches up with him and he realizes that actually, he has no idea how he shall sort this mess out.

* * *

_Baltimore, Thursday 25__th__ august 2011_

The red, bright letters on the alarm clock announce 7:30 p.m. He sits on the bed and rubs his hands. They are sweaty, a hint for his nervousness. _Oh god, I hate to wait. _

He looks over his shoulder. The ARI lies on the desk and his mind longs to walk over, longs to busy itself. He turns his head quickly back at the clock; hides from the temptation.

By the sound of the knock on the door, he almost jumps to his feet, yet hesitates. _I hope this works out alright; _he thinks as he walks over and opens the door.

The woman is dressed in jeans, as always, a white blouse and a leather jacket.

"Hi", he says nervously. "You came."

"Obviously", she replies.

Her actual appearance amazes him more than he expected and he's still searching for something to say as asks calmly: "So… do you let me in?"

"Yeah", he hurries to say. "Yeah, of course. Sorry."

_What a great start. Really._

He steps away from the door and follows her as she walks over the windows and looks outside.

"You always get the rooms with the best view, do you?" she asks matter-of-factly and turns around, arms folded before her chest.

He shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know."

"Yes. Right", she says.

Silence falls between them, as she looks around. He hesitates, then steps forward.

"Kate, what happened in Indianapolis…" he starts, pauses and continues. "I am sorry. I am really, really sorry and…"

"Stop that", she cuts in. "I hate the way you pronounce sorry."

He stares at her, irritated. "You hate the way I pronounce sorry?" he repeats slowly.

She nods her head. "Yes. Indeed."

"Oh. Okay..."

"And I don't do junkies", she adds. "Not even when they are in the FBI."

He lowers his gaze to his shoes. "I've been in… medical treatment."

"You mean rehab."

He flinches by the mere sound of the word. "I'm not addicted", he says, but does not look at her.

"Of course not", she says ironically.

"You don't understand…"

"No, I don't."

"It's… complicated", he says elusively. "But I'm not using it anymore."

"Good", she replies, but remains where she is.

He wishes she would at least drop her purse, or lower her arms, but she doesn't seem to be in the mood for reconciliation.

"Not good enough, as it seems."

"You threatened me", she states.

For a second, he wants to deny it, wants to minimize the incident, but he can tell, by the stern expression in her eyes, she'd know it would be a lie.  
"Yes", he admits. "But I would have never… harmed you. Really, Kate, I would have never…"

"Yeah, because I would have simply suffocated you with a pillow if you had tried."

_Oh, great. She's already thinking of ways to kill me_. "That sounds like you've really thought about it."

She raises an eyebrow. "I have."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of this", he mutters and sits down on the edge of the bed.

"What did you expect? That I'd be looking forward to this… meeting?"

"Actually, I hoped so", he replies. "I guess that was pretty stupid, though. I mean, after all, you already… found someone else to meet."

His voice sounds reproachful, even though he hasn't meant it to.

"You blame me? Seriously?" she asks.

"I'm just stating the facts."

"The facts? We were never exclusive, Jayden, so I will not apologize for meeting somebody else, even more after you have thrown me out of your room and basically told me to fuck off!"

_Okay, this is going down the tube. Fast._

"I'm sorry, okay? I told you I'm sorry", he says, tries to save the situation.

"I don't care for all your sorrys. It's nothing but words", she states.

"What do you care for, then? What do you expect from me? I'd explain it to you, but you said you don't want an explanation. So, what am I supposed to do? Turn back time?"

"You can't turn back time", she says absent-mindedly. "Sadly."

_Alright, I guess, that's it. Congratulations, idiot. You fucked up everything – again. _

He shakes his head and looks down. "So, you came to tell me you're done with me, right? You shouldn't have bothered."

Silence falls between them. He waits for her to leave, vanish out of his life, but to his own astonishment, she walks over to him slowly. She drops her purse, then sits down his lap. He looks up at her.

"You're not leaving?" he asks, his voice filled with surprise.

"Not yet", she says and her right hand wraps around his tie, causing it to tighten around his throat.

He swallows hard. "You're going to strangle me?"

She smirks and leans closer, her lips next to his ear. "No", she replies calmly. "I just threaten you."

Her tone is serious, yet seductive and as her lips capture his, her hand lets go off his tie.

* * *

Afterwards, he finds himself sitting on his bed again, waiting for her to come out of the bathroom. He knows she prepares to leave. The procedure is the same as always.

Usually, he goes back to work as soon as she's gone, analyzes files and clues. Only that tonight, there's no work left over. They have arrested the suspect this afternoon. There's nothing more for him to do, except the paperwork. And he always waits with the paperwork until he's back in Washington.

_Nine o'clock. I should have taken more time with her, _he thinks. But, to be honest, he hasn't been the one in charge tonight. Well, he hasn't been the one in charge in most of their nights.

The woman comes out of the bathroom and looks at him briefly.

"Dressed again, are you?" she asks as she collects her shoes.

"You're dressed, as well", he states.

"Yes", she says while she puts on her high heels. "Because I have to leave. But you don't. You could just crawl into the sheets and sleep."

He raises an eyebrow. "It's nine o'clock."

"Wouldn't stop most of the men I know", she says casually and takes her phone out of her purse.

He decides not to ask any further about men she knows, because he is pretty sure the conversation will not end well. "You don't have to leave, you know that, do you?" he asks instead. "I mean, it's not like I'd… throw you out. Again."

_Ouch. I should really reconsider my phraseology._

She shots him a glance, but remains silent and concentrates on her phone.

"We… could go out for a drink. If you want to", he suggests. "I mean, it's very early…"

"No, thank you", she cuts in. "My plane departs in two and a half hours."

She takes her phone out of her purse and her fingers glide over the display.

"Onward flight?" he asks.

"Yes."

He nods his head slowly. "So – where are you going?"

"L.A.", she says, but suddenly, frowns. "Or maybe not."

"What's the matter?"

"The stupid flight is delayed… Oh, come on, show me the flight information… What? Seriously? Ah, fuck," she curses.

"Cancelled?" he guesses and rises.

"No. Postponed until tomorrow, 11:45 a.m… Oh, great. And the other flight is completely booked out."

She tosses her phone back into her purse. "I hate to waste my time at the airport." She grabs her jacket and puts it on.

"Well, you could accept my invitation and have a drink instead", he suggests.

"Thanks, but I should really head back and try to catch a free seat, if I don't wanna sleep on the floor."

He stares at her. "You want to sleep at the _airport_?"

"Sure. It's not my first time", she replies casually and pulls up the zipper of her jacket.

"But… That sounds uncomfortable."

"Well, I bet your night will be more comfortable, but don't worry, I'll survive." She puts a strain of her hair back behind her ears and looks at him. "Well, I gotta hurry."

"Wait!" he calls out as she walks towards the door.

She stops and turns, raises her eyebrow in question.

"You can stay here. For the night. I mean – this room should be big enough for two people, shouldn't it?"

The woman shakes her head slowly. "Jayden, you really don't have to worry about me. I'm sure you got work to do and I don't want to disturb you."

"Actually, I don't. We caught the suspect this afternoon, so, well… I'm free as a bird."

_As always. _

She looks at him. "Congratulations. You must be proud of yourself."

_Actually, relieved is more like it, _he thinks. "Yeah, well… It was rather easy."

"Anyways, I really appreciate your offer, but I'll be fine. As I said, it's not my first time and at least, I can check the flight information anytime as soon as I'm at the airport."

"You can do that with your phone, as well", he says.

"Yeah, sure, but it's not always up-to-date. I feel safer when I can check it there."

He looks at her and can't help but doubt her arguments. _Well, I guess she's not really keen on spending a whole night with me. _

Somehow, it bothers him. He would like to believe she enjoys his company, but actually, it appears to him as if she just follows a strange scheme, a scheme she hides from him.

"Yeah. Sure. Do whatever you like", he says and it sounds more reserved than he intended it to.

He turns around and waits for the door to close, but instead, he can hear her heels clack on the floor as she walks back over to him.

"You are angry", she states calmly.

"No", he replies, but refrains to look at her.

"Yes, you are." She hesitates, then adds: "Why?"

"I'm not angry", he mutters.

Her hand reaches out for his shoulder, but he wriggles her off. He turns around and faces her.

"You can't wait to get the hell out of here, can you?"

Surprise shines in her eyes. "That's nonsense."

"No, it's pretty obvious. I mean, you arrive and we – well, you know – and then you always rush out."

She shakes her head in irritation. "I thought we had agreed… On this procedure."

"Maybe, yeah, but…"

"But what? What do you want, Jayden?" she asks. "I've told you, as we met, that I'm not into a serious relationship and…"

"I'm not suggesting a serious relationship, Kate. Just a drink. A conversation. Hell, we've met five times and I don't even know your surname now."

She stares at him and he raises his hands in defense. "Forget it."

Silence falls between them, but then, all of a sudden, she says: "Alright, then."

His eyes travel back to hers. "Alright, what?"

"Alright, I'm staying."

For a second, he is completely speechless. The woman raises an eyebrow. "Did you change your mind?" she asks casually.

"No. No", he hurries to say. "Well… So… Would you like a drink?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "Sure. Why not? As you just said, it's pretty early."

"Okay… Great." He walks over to the nightstand and takes his wallet. "I'm afraid I don't know any bar except the one in this hotel, but we can go out and search another, if you want to."

"It's fine. As long as they got gin, I'm satisfied", she replies.

"Gin", he mutters and shakes his head. "You're not related to the Royal Family, are you?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. You're definitely not sleeping with a celebrity." She pauses and looks at him. "You're ready?"

"Yeah. Sure."

They leave the room and head into the elevator. He gives her a furtive look, still slightly irritated she actually accepted his invitation and, even more, irritated he invited her. His own behavior is new to him. And novelty is not really his forte, at least when it affects his usual routine.

_Hopefully, this ends well, _he thinks. _I clearly doubt she'll hold herself back next time I freak out._

The elevator holds and they step out and walk into the bar. As soon as they sit down, the waiter takes their order and returns with the drinks only minutes later, gin tonic for her, vodka for him.

"Vodka", she says and wrinkles her nose.

"Yeah. You don't like it?"

"No. Not anymore."

He raises an eyebrow. "Anymore? Made some bad experience?"

"Oh yes", she says.

"Care to share the story?" he asks.

"Never. As long as I live. Never."

The woman turns her head slightly and watches the couples on the dance floor, just like she did in Pittsburgh.

"I once danced to this song, as well. At the senior prom. Ages ago."

He strains his ears. "That's George Michael, isn't it?"

"Yes. Careless whisper." She turns her gaze back at him. "You wouldn't care for a dance, would you?"

He chokes at his drink and coughs. "No."

The woman raises an eyebrow. "Now, don't tell me the FBI doesn't teach their agents how to dance?"

"Actually, the FBI doesn't teach anything that makes your life more pleasant."

"No dream job, hm?"

He looks at her, surprised and doesn't know what to reply. The song stops and the Beach Boys start to sing about Barbara Ann.

"Well, I guess we stumbled right into an oldies night", she says and drinks, defeats the silence between them.

Glad she changed the topic, he replies: "I like that song."

"Old movies and old songs?" she asks and sounds a little bit amused.

"Well, you won't find a lot of trend-setters in the FBI. The old fashioned behavior comes with the grey suit."

"Actually, I like that suit."

He looks at her. "That's the first time you told me you actually like something about me."

"Of course I like something about you", she says and turns her attention back to the dancing people. "After all, I sleep with you."

His cheeks redden and he shakes his head. "You are really blunt."

"Blunt? No. I'm just honest."

"Honest enough to finally tell me your surname?" he asks.

She eyes him. "It's really important to you, is it?"

"No… Yes…"

She frowns at him and he wishes he wouldn't have asked.

"Look… I just want to get to know you. I think it's getting weird that we… meet once a month and I don't know anything about you."

"But I don't know a lot about you, either."

_No. Except my surname, my hometown and my drug addiction, you really don't know anything about me, _he thinks ironically, but is smart enough not to say that.

"Maybe, but I would tell you something about me if you would ask", he says. "Only – you never ask."

The woman hesitates and her fingers circle over the edge of the glass. "Well, I guess I'm not used to asking people about their background information."

"You are a headhunter", he says. "Don't you always check people's backgrounds?"

"Yes, but that's work. And between us – it's private. And it's… different to my other… dates."

The question burns in his mind, but he hesitates to ask, hesitates because he's not sure he wants to know the answer. But the question remains, refrains to vanish and the words fall out.

"Different… Good or bad?"

She raises her eyes in question. "What do you mean?"

"Well, compared to your… other dates… Compared to your date yesterday: is this better, or worse?"

"Compared to my date yesterday, it's better", she replies.

"Really?" he asks and wishes his voice wouldn't sound so astonished. "He was that lousy?"

She eyes him, her expression thoughtful. "And I always thought you Federal agents were more convinced of yourself."

Speechless, he looks at her. _She's trying to analyze me, isn't she? _he thinks and doesn't feel comfortable with it. After all, he is the profiler, he is the one who should be able to analyze her…

"Okay, I'll put it like this: the guy last night was just as sexy as he was dumb", she finally says.

_Sexy. Great._

"So… You're not going to see him again?" he asks.

_Say no. Just say no… Wait a second – I should not bother, should I?_

"I told you I don't do repetitions", she states.

"You just did."

"Yes. Because I made an exception. Once." She looks up at him. "Only once."

Though he is sure he shouldn't interpret anything into her last sentence, he can't help but smile. The song changes again and Middle of the Road warble _Chirpy Chirpy cheep cheep_.

"Weird how you can make money with a song that has actually no text at all, don't you think?" he asks.

As she doesn't reply, he looks up to her. All of a sudden, her face has turned completely pale and her fingers cling around the glass.

"Kate? Are you alright?" he asks.

The glass falls out of her hand and down to the floor. Her hands tremble.

"Kate", he says and reaches out for her hand, but she pulls it back quickly and rises.

"I can't breathe", she says and grabs for the back of the chair.

He jumps on his feet and lays his arm on hers.

"Kate", he repeats.

She pushes him off and takes her purse. "I need to get out of here", she says and storms out of the bar.

He stares after her, completely dazzled. Some of the other guests turn their heads and start to gossip, as he opens his wallet and throws the money on the table. He heads out of the bar and spots her at the entrance doors.

"Kate, wait!" he calls out, but she hurries out without even looking back.

"Shit", he swears. He ignores the stares of the receptionist and follows her out to the parking lot. She's almost at the street as he catches her up and grabs her arm, forces her to swirl around. She tries to break free, but he holds her tight, his hands fixed at her shoulders.

"Kate! What the hell is going on?" he asks.

Her eyes flicker as she looks up at him. "Let me go."

"Tell me what's wrong!" he repeats.

"I said: let me go!" she says, her voice almost hysterical. She struggles against him, hits her fist into his chest, but instead of backing up, he just pulls her closer.

"Look at me", he insists. "Kate!"

She shakes her head, then, all of a sudden, her movements freeze and her hands cling on his shirt.

"Bring me back to the room. Please", she whispers.

He hesitates, then wraps his right arm around her and slowly walks back with her.

* * *

Her heart beats merciless against her chest as he leads her back into the hotel and into the elevator.

The song still haunts her, the stupid, fucking song and she grabs tighter at his shoulder, tries to shake off the memories. The elevator holds and finally, they reach his room. He escorts her to the bed and she sits down, tries to control her breathing.

_Shit! God damn, no! _

He attempts to sit down beneath her, but she shakes her head. "No. Please. Give me a second."

_Feeling unwell, honey? _the voice asks ironically.

_Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! _she snaps back. _Countenance. Come on. You can do it, girl. You can do it. _She covers her face with her hands and takes a deep breath. _Hush, little baby, don't say a word.  
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird…_

_God, look at you. Reciting nursery rhymes. And all this just because you couldn't listen, _the voice says. _Okay, calm down, darling and let's get the hell out of here. We have to leave. Now._

The voice is right. She cannot stay. She needs to get the hell out of here, back to her hotel, back to a safe place. Her heartbeat finally slows down and she rises. _  
_

"Are you okay?" he asks immediately.

"I've got to leave", she says and avoids his gaze.

"What?"

She hesitates, then steps forward to pass him, but he quickly takes her arm.

"You can't leave. Not in that state…"

"I'm fine", she interrupts him and tries to free from his grip. "Just let me go."

"You're not fine. Kate, what the hell is going on?"

Once more, she tries to shake him off. "Jayden, let me go."

"Kate, look at me", he insists.  
Slowly, she raises her head. "You should not keep me around. You will regret it."

_What the… Have you lost your mind? _the voice shrieks.

"What?" he asks.

"Jayden, for your own sake, let me go. Just let me go", she says and struggles against him.

"No", he repeats once more.

She looks at him, surprised and suddenly, he pulls her close and presses his lips at hers.

_Oh no. No, no, no, s_he thinks and tries to push him off, but he only deepens the kiss. _I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here, now. _One of his hands moves to her back and pulls her even closer and as her body is pressed to his, she is irrevocably lost. She kisses him back forcefully and her right hand rips the shirt out of his trousers. Her fingers trace over his flesh and he shudders, drags her towards the bed and pushes her into the sheets. His hands moved to her back and open the bra, then he simply pulls it up, together with her shirt. The clasp nails into her flesh, but she doesn't even realize it. Her fingers nestle with his belt as he places frenzied kisses on her soft flesh. She gasps as his tongue flickers over her bare tips and finally succeeds to open his belt. She pulls down the zipper of his trousers and her hand moves down into his pants. His body tenses up as her hand strokes over his swollen, pounding flesh and he kisses her again, longingly and desperate. She pulls his trousers down as far as possible and he breaks the kiss and rises to take them off completely. He fetches the condom out of his wallet, while she takes off her jeans and pants hurriedly. Her hand grips for his and she pulls him back into the bed. His mouth captures hers urgently and she wraps her arms around his neck. He moves up a little, then thrusts into her hard. She squirms, but her hips arch up to meet his thrusts. A feverish heat runs through her body and she presses her hand into his neck. Her lips swallow his moan as she kisses him forcefully and digs her nails into his back. He grounds his body hard into her in response and she takes a deep breath, tries desperately to adapt to his rhythm. Her hips wriggle under him, but he rocks against her merciless, his tongue darting inside her mouth. She closes her eyes, surrenders to her sudden, unforeseen longing and accepts her defeat. In the blink of an eye, he pushes her over the edge and she clings harder at him, her body shuddering uncontrollably. A husky moan escapes his lips as he follows her with a last, harsh thrust. Still breathless, she kisses him again and runs her fingers down his spine.

_I am wasted. I am so fucking wasted, _she thinks.

He pulls back slowly and tumbles out of the bed. Her eyes follow him until he disappears in the bathroom and she sighs deeply. _Oh, fuck._

_Yeah, _the voice says. _Amen. Okay, let's keep the mess a minimum. Rise, put your clothes on and get the hell out of here. Now!_

The woman covers her eyes with her hand, but doesn't move.

_Kate, this is serious. We have to get out of here before we end up in more trouble._

"We already are in trouble", she whispers.

The voice stares at her in disbelief, then slowly shakes its head. _Okay, that's it. You're nothing but an incorrigible, stubborn fool, Kate. You always were. And I'm done wasting my time. Go and spoil everything, if you have to._

"Spoiling is my forte, _honey. _My only forte", she mumbles.

The voice shots her one last, loathing glance, then disappears. She counts to three, then rises and picks her pants up from the floor. She wishes she'd had another one in her purse, but well, this one's been basically torn down from her body in instant, so she decides it's good enough to wear. Better than to sleep naked. Just as she readjusts her bra and shirt, he comes back into the room. For a second, she envies him for his fresh pants, but resists asking him if she can borrow one. He takes a water bottle out of the fridge and holds it out to her. She takes it, drinks and gives it back to him.

Seconds in silence pass, until he finally asks: "You're okay?"

"Yes", she replies.

"You're sure?"

"Yes. Just a little bit… tired."

Slowly, he walks over to her and sits down on the end of the bed.

"You won't tell me what happened, will you?" he asks, after a pause.

"I'd rather not talk about it", she replies quietly.

He hesitates. "You're not in any danger, are you?"

"Danger?" she asks slowly.

"Yeah. I mean… you could tell me, you know that? After all, I am an FBI agent, so…"

"Yes, you've mentioned that. Once, or twice", she says and pauses. "But I fear I'm not a princess in need for a knight to save her."

"What are you, then?" he asks.

"Just an ordinary human being with some bad memories", she replies and looks at him. "Aren't you tired?"

"Actually – yes", he replies.

"Then why don't you take off your clothes and lay down? Did I scare you off completely?"

"Well, I scared you off once, as well, so I guess we're even", he says and takes off his tie.

Just as he wants to unbutton his shirt, she slides up to him.

"Let me do that", she says calmly and undoes the buttons quickly. She attempts to fold the shirt, but he takes it out of her hands and throws it down to the floor. He leans forward and kisses her slowly. Her fingers run through his hair and, as he breaks the kiss, gently over his face.

"Where did you get that scar?" she asks.

"FBI academy."

"In training?"

He shakes his head slowly. "No."

She looks at him, irritated. "No?"

He smiles slightly, but his eyes remain disturbingly serious. "Actually, that's something I don't want to talk about."

She considers his reply, then slowly nods her head. "Okay."

"By the way, you've got one, too. A scar", he says, to avoid another disturbing silence.

"Me?"

"Yes. On your neck." His right hand moves over her shoulder and he places his index finger at the spot, right under her hairline. "Right here."

"Seriously?" she asks surprised.

"Yeah. You didn't know that?"

"Actually, no. Well, I guess you're the first one who noticed."

"I pay attention to the details", he replies. "And by the way you just clenched your teeth; I suspect you hid a yawn."

Her lips curl into a small smile. "Well, you could finally lie down and turn off the lights, if you weren't too busy staring at me."

"I am not staring at you", he contradicts. "I am just thinking…"

"You think too much", she interrupts him.

"You have no idea."

His expression sounds too serious, just a nuance and she focuses her eyes on his, tries to discover the meaning. He holds her gaze for some seconds, but then rises and walks over to the other side of the bed. "I'll set the alarm clock on six", he says.

The woman nods and moves back up, covers under the blanket.

He shuts off the light and she expects him to slide up to her, but he doesn't. Their only correlation in the darkness is their low breathing and plenty of unasked questions.

* * *

The alarm clock rips him out of his sleep the next morning. He opens his eyes unwillingly and his hand searches for the light switch. Just as he finds it and turns the lights on, he remembers his… g_uest _and immediately sets his eyes on the other side of the bed, the apology for his rude wakeup call already on his lips. Only that it's unnecessary. The other side of the bed is empty.

For a moment, he is completely startled.

_Maybe she's already in the bathroom, _he thinks and strains his ears, but the whole room is quiet. He rises slowly and looks around.

Her purse is gone. So are her shoes and jacket.

Confused, he runs his fingers through his hair and looks around, to see if she has left a message, but he finds nothing.

_Face it. She's taken the money and ran._

He shakes his head in disbelief. She wouldn't have simply disappeared. Not after the events of last night.

_Maybe she's gone because of last night._

He dismisses the thought quickly and walks back to the nightstand. He switches his phone on, expects, _hopes_, for a message, but though he stares at the display for five minutes or longer, nothing happens.

Slowly, he sits down on the bed.

"So, that's it", he mutters and can't help but feel angry. He has helped her out, last night, god damn it. He has consoled her, comforted her, given her shelter…

_Actually, you have just slept with her. She has helped you out in Charlottesville, yes, but you just slept with her. _

He tosses his phone on the bed in frustration and tilts his head back. _God, no, _he thinks. _Why the hell did I not hear her get up?_

The white ceiling does not reply to his question, of course.

_I should have known. I shouldn't have asked her all that private stuff, I should have waited. She might have told me, if I had only given her time. But I guess it's too late for what ifs now._

Reluctantly, he rises again and searches his bag for some new clothes, as suddenly, his phone rings.

Within an instant, he picks it up from the bed and looks at the display.

_Kate calling._

"Norman Jayden", he answers immediately.

"Good morning", she replies. "Did I wake you?"

"Kate… Where are you?" he asks. _Shit. I sound like an overprotective father._

"At the airport. My flight has been rescheduled to 8 a.m. I got the call around five this morning."

It's a completely logical explanation. Only he hasn't thought about it. He has thought, instantly, she had run away.

"You should have waked me", he says. "I..."

"You thought I had made the run for it, didn't you?" she asks.

"Am I really that predictable?"

The woman chuckles slightly. "Never underestimate my _profiler _skills. Anyways, I just called you to tell you I didn't run away."

"Oh… Okay", he replies.

"Okay?" she asks and he imagines how she raises her eyebrow.

"I mean… good. Great."

"Okay", she says and sounds amused. "Well, I'm next for security control and I don't want to keep you up, so… Good-bye. Drive safely."

"Good-bye", he replies and the call is ended.

He stares at his phone and wonders if last night has been a further development, or just an exception. And if it has been a further development, where does it lead?

* * *

_Philadelphia, Friday 7__h__ October 2011_

The woman sits at the bar of the Four Seasons Hotel in Philadelphia, morose and impatient. She's been waiting for two hours, but he hasn't shown up yet. With every passing minute, her mood adapts more and more to the depressing atmosphere of the city, which has obviously decided to become America's gutter, offering nothing but rain, cold and flu.

She looks at her drink and grimaces. _Hell, how I hate gin. _

The bartender smiles at her, encouragingly, but she can't reply to his kindness. She checks her phone for a message and sighs. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

_Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe your little freak show really scared him off, _the voice says casually.

The woman shakes her head. Impossible. He has asked her to meet him, not the other way around.

Probably he's still working. He hasn't told her why the Bureau has sent him to Philadelphia, or to Pittsburgh, or Indianapolis, but she reads newspapers, and the newspapers are all over it. The Origami killer. A very artistic title for a man who drowns young boys in rainwater.

_Well, killing is an art. At least when you do it right. Don't you agree, honey?_

"Yes", she mutters empties her drink and stares at the empty glass, unsure how to proceed.

Actually, she is too tired and moody to try her patience, but she's too stubborn and smug to leave, as well.

_Or maybe just too attached, _the voice says ironically.

The woman raises an eyebrow. Attached? Her?

_Yes, you. Remember the way you clung onto him, last time? After the incident? As if you were drowning and he was your lifebelt? So touching. So god damn touching. _

She clenches her teeth and withstands the urge to growl. The voice doesn't understand. It just doesn't understand. Even though she hadn't planned it, it had worked well with her plan. It had been the final proof he really cares for her and now, little separates her from achieving her aim: win his trust, win his affection.

_Go and try to deceive yourself, Katie, but you can't fool me. You've taken a liking on that guy, too._

She shakes her head slowly, in denial. It is true, she feels… comfortable in his presence, more than with the other men she's met, but she will not forget why she's here, she will not forget why she chose him. She will not refrain from her plan.

_No, _the voice admits. _No, you won't. But secretly, you wish he would be easier to dislike, wouldn't you? _

The woman just rolls her eyes, but doesn't bother to reply. She looks at her watch, again and decides that she's wasted enough time with silly thoughts and awful drinks. She pays and slowly walks out of the bar.

_Maybe I should leave him a message. Just to tell him I've been here. To avoid misunderstandings. _

The voice frowns at her. _Yeah, go and write down one of Shakespeare's sonnets. Oh Romeo, Romoe! Wherefore art thou Romeo?_

For a second, she's tempted to write something so stupid, just to annoy the voice, but in the end, she leaves the note short and casual. The receptionist assures to deliver the message personally and calls her a cab.

The rain still pours down merciless and, as she sits in the cab, she longs for nothing but wool sheets and a hot drink.

* * *

_Philadelphia, Friday 7__h__ October 2011_

It's 11:23 p.m. as Norman Jayden finally arrives in his hotel room. Safe and sound, to his own surprise. He doesn't quite know how he actually managed to flee from the crime scene without being hospitalized or murdered by Carter Blake's outraged glance, or how he managed to drive back without crashing the rental car, but he doesn't really care.

Maybe it's been the adrenaline, together with the excitement and the astonishment, that's kept him on his feet. Sadly, it all has vanished the same moment as he has closed the door. He stumbles forward and sits down on his bed, nothing left but the exhaustion. The exhaustion and the pain. With trembling hands, he takes off his gun holster and hides the gun in the nightstand. His wet and dirty coat soils the blanket, but he can't find the strength to rise. Every nerve in his body sends a signal of pain to his head, which only replies with a pounding ache. Cold sweat covers his body, his vision is blurry and he can already hear the sound of the shaking leaves in his ears.

His right hand wraps around the blue phial in his coat. It can make everything go away. The pain. The sickness. The woods. Yet, he hesitates, in a desperate attempt to act reasonable. It would be the third dose for today, the _third_. He has pushed it over the edge this week. _Again. _

_I could as well shoot myself, _he thinks gravely. _Same effect._

Only that a bullet wouldn't have helped him on the case. Instead of the tripto and the ARI. He removes his hand out of his pocket and slowly rises. Still stumbling, he walks into the bathroom and leans over the water basin. His heart beats rapidly against his chest as he tries to fight the urge to vomit into the white porcelain. The sound of the fallen leaves gets more and more intense, even though he dashes cold water to his face. His legs start to tremble and fear creeps up on him.

_They'll have my badge if I collapse again. They'll have my badge no matter if I solved the case, or not. _

His right hand grabs for the tripto. As he looks at it, his eyes catch his own reflection in the mirror. Only for a second, but long enough for him to see the contrast between his ash-gray skin and his red eyes. He looks like a hobo. Like a… junkie.

The tripto can change that, as well. The tripto can cover his inadequacy. The tripto can turn him into the FBI agent who just saved Shaun Mars.

Without wasting another thought, he opens the phial. For a moment, the sickness and the pain increases, becomes almost unbearable, but then, slowly, everything fades out. The woods. The headache. He moves towards the bathroom door. The other pain, the pain caused by iron bars and punches, remains, but less vicious.

As he steps out of the bathroom, his eyes fall on a white envelope next to the door. Obviously, it's been put through it. He frowns, tries to recall if it's been there as he has walked in. _I've probably missed it, _he thinks. He ignores the painful complaint of his back and bends down to pick it up. The envelope is completely blank. _Can't be from Washington, can it?_

He opens the envelope and takes out a small note, written on a sheet of paper with the hotel logo in the upper right corner.

_I've waited, but you've probably been busy. Maybe next time. Kate_

At first, the few words irritate him, then suddenly, he remembers he has called her, only two days ago.

_Jesus, guess my head's really nothing more but a smashed pumpkin. _

He wonders how long she has waited. Maybe half an hour.

Slowly, he walks back to his bed and sits down again, still fully dressed, still indifferent to the dirt on his clothes.

He lies the envelope and the note down on his nightstand and blinks his eyes. The lights disturb him. They reveille the headache. He wonders if the tripto loses its effect because he's taken too much, or if he has underrated his injuries. It seems to him as if the pain already came back, in all its twisted colors. The fear, which has lingered in the dark so patiently before, finally takes possession over his thoughts.

_I've really pushed it over the edge, _he thinks desperately.

The doctors have warned him about it. The doctors and the scientist have told him, over and over, that if he overuses the ARI, he might end up catatonic. Or dead.

But he hasn't listened. Or well, he has listened, but he has ignored it in his desperate wish to save Shaun Mars.

_I'm so fucked up. I am so absolutely fucked up. _

He closes his eyes and tries to block out the thoughts and the fear, but his barriers have surrendered to the exhaustion and the pain. _I can't take it. I just can't, _he thinks and his trembling hands search for his phone in his other coat pocket.

_911 would be a reasonable choice_, he thinks, but hesitates.

The doctors have told him the triptocaine can't be detected in usual blood tests, but well, the other symptoms are very obvious, at least tonight. At least in his state.

_I could call her. Ask her to come over. If I collapse, there'll be at least someone in this room who'll help me. _

He scrolls through his contacts until he finds the right entry, but just as he wants to dial her number, he remembers Indianapolis. Remembers her anger. Her contempt.

She won't help him. Not if she realizes the truth. She's made it very clear and he doubts she has changed her mind.

Slowly, he lies the phone down on the nightstand. He's got no other option than to make it through the night alone. Usually, he prefers loneliness. But as he lies down in the bed and turns off the light, he wishes the situation would be different. Wishes for someone who would hold his hand and tell him he'll be alright, even if it would be just a lie.

* * *

There are only two types of dreams the woman experiences lately. The ones in which she dies – the ones she is used to, the ones she prefers – and the ones in which she's captured by a vivid, green landscape and dark horses – the ones she fears, the ones she hates.

Luckily, the grey atmosphere of Philadelphia allows no green and she sleeps peacefully, hidden under an old-fashioned blanket with floral design.

Yet, though she is sound asleep, she wakes up by the first ringing of her phone. As always, the sound irritates her, even more as she turns around and looks at the alarm clock. 02:47 a.m.

She rises partially and reaches out for her phone.

_Jayden calling. _

The woman sighs and shakes her head. _Oh, damn it. A message at a more decent time would have been enough, _she thinks.

Nevertheless, she answers the call. "Yes?" she asks and covers her eyes with her arm.

"I woke you", he says and this time, she does not deny it.

"Yes. You could have just sent me a message." She suppresses a yawn and stretches.

"No. No, I couldn't."

His expression sounds… strange. Worried, somehow.

"Are you alright?" she asks and rises partially.

The line remains silent.

"Jayden?" she repeats.

"Would you do me a favor?" he finally asks.

_Anything, _the voice says ironically. _Give her what she wants and she'll do anything for you. That's the way it works, ain't it, Kate?_

The woman tries to remain calm and ignore the voice. "Depends on what you want."

"Can you come over? I know it's late and I know you've already been here and you've waited, but… Can you come? Now?"

For a second, she is simply baffled. Speechless.

"Please, Kate."

_Something's is rotten in the state of Denmark, _she thinks. _Something is most definitely rotten._

"What's wrong? Are you alright?" she repeats again and turns on the lights. Her eyes blink rapidly at the sudden illumination.

"I don't know", he admits and pauses. "I'm… I just don't know."

_Alright, this is creepy. This is even more creepy than your little freak show, darling, and that's surely been hell out of line. I told you you'd only end up in trouble. Don't ever say I didn't warn you._

"Will you come?" he asks.

_Yes, will you? _the voice asks, as well. _Will you, Katie?_

"Yes", she replies and hangs up.

Yet, she doesn't stand up immediately. She sits on her bed and stares at her phone, surprised by her own decision.

_Told you. You've taken a liking on him, _the voice states and it doesn't sound angry. More… resigning.

The woman shakes her head in contradiction. _I'm just playing my cards, _she thinks. _Nothing more, nothing less. All in. The only way things like this work. The only way one wins. _

* * *

Forty minutes later, she arrives back at the hotel. She makes her way through the entrance hall, into the elevator and up the seventh floor, until she finally reaches room number 733. She knocks on the door and waits. One minute. Two. Three.

_Come on, just open up!_ she thinks and withstands the urge to tap her foot nervously on the ground.

Another minute passes and the woman starts to consider and discards various possibilities to get inside his room if he doesn't open – call the receptionist, try to break in, call the ambulance – as he finally opens the door.

"Hey", he says.

Wide-eyed, she just stares at him. His coat and trousers are dirty and his face is completely pale, except for a bright red bruise above his right eyebrow. After the first moment of shock, she walks in and closes the door.

"Are you alright?" she asks, but immediately regrets the question.

He seems to stumble, even though he does not move and she can see his finger shake, though he tries to hide it.

"No, I guess", he says.

Without any further thought, she takes his arm. "Sit down", she says and leads him over to the bed. Her eyes fall on the dirty, wet sheets.

"Did you lie down in your clothes?" she asks.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did", he replies.

"Okay", she says slowly, but shakes her head. _What the hell is going on here?_ "Come on, sit down", she repeats and kicks his shoes out of the way, the only part of his clothes he is not wearing.

As soon as he's seated, she opens the zipper of his coat and takes it off.

"You're completely drenched", she states as she lies the coat down on the floor. "Why didn't you undress? You'll just catch pneumonia."

"I was tired", he replies.

The woman stares at him, then loosens his tie. "You can't sleep like that."

Her fingers move to the first button of his shirt, but he grabs for her wrists.

"That's dry", he says. "Can't we just… sleep?"

Her eyes narrow. "No."

"Kate…" he starts, but she only shakes her head.

He sighs and removes his hand reluctantly. She unbuttons the shirt and it falls down, together with his tie.

"Raise your arms", she commands.

Slowly, he lifts them and she pulls his undershirt up. He looks at her as it's out of the way, tries to catch her eyes as she sees the jigsaw puzzle of bruises. Her expression is blank, but she unconsciously steps back.

"Jesus", she mutters. "What the hell…"

"We got him, Kate. The Origami killer. Shaun Mars is safe. He is alive. We won", he interrupts her and tries to make his voice sound cheerful. It doesn't quite work.

"Jayden", she says carefully. "I really don't want to spoil this moment of victory, but you don't look exactly like a winner."

He takes a deep breath. "It's nothing, really. It's…"

"Sure. It's nothing."

"It's just bruises. Nothing to worry about. It looks bad now, but in two or three days…"

"You should see a doctor. No, a hospital."

"I'm fine. It's been worse. I mean, it's nothing compared to Charlottesville, is it?"

She shakes her head in disbelief. "Jayden, have you lost your mind? That must hurt!"

"The doctors gave me some pain medication. It's alright."

"No, it is not. It's not _alright_."

She bends down and collects his clothes from the floor. "I'll put these in the bathroom and see if there are some bandages. And ointment."

"Don't bother. Please, Kate, it's okay…"

The woman shots him a glance. "It's not _okay_, either. Stop contradicting me."

He looks at her, surprised, and nods his head.

"Fine", she says and walks over to the bathroom. She lays his tie, shirt and undershirt down to the floor, then tries to hang up his coat in the shower cabin. It falls down, of course and she curses silently. She picks it up on the wrong end and there's a clicking sound as something falls out of one pocket. Irritated, she searches the floor and her eyes fall on the phial.

_Weird packaging for pain medication,_ she thinks, hangs up his coat and then bends down to pick it up. At first, she thinks it's some sort of blue liquid, but as she turns it upside down, she realizes it's more like powder.

_Now, this doesn't look like pain medication, _she thinks. _Looks more like…_

_Drugs, _the voice interrupts. _Congratulations, Kate. You've just found Mr. FBI profiler's secret drug supply. Obviously, he hasn't stopped to use this stuff. He's lied to you. He's lied to the queen of liars and you haven't realized it. How funny. And how disappointing. _

The woman swallows, tries to suppress the sudden feeling of anger. Her fingers clench around the phial as she walks back inside the room.

"So, the doctors gave you pain medication, right?" she asks, her tone edgy.

He looks up and his eyes shine with surprise as he spots the phial in her hand.

"That's only one dose. For emergency use."

The words come out too fast. Too fast and too insecure.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" she asks, her voice dangerously low. "Do you really believe you can cover something so obvious with such a stupid lie?"

He looks at her and she prepares to face another bunch of lies, prepares to cut him off, but suddenly, he lowers his gaze.

"No", he mutters. "No, I don't."

She raises an eyebrow. "Good. So, how many of this wonder powder did you really take to be able to stand on your feet and pretend you don't need a hospital?"

"I don't remember", he says elusively.

"Jayden, if you lie to me one more time, you can try and come through the night alone. So, how many?"

"I really don't remember, okay? Two doses. Or three."

"Two or three?" she asks. "Have you lost your mind?"

He raises his hands in defense. "Okay, look, I know I repel you, but…"

"Oh, god, shut up! Jesus, you're not going to make it through another year if you continue like that. You realize that, don't you?"

"I'm sure you've got enough replacements in hand", he says wearily.

She stares at him, then suddenly, throws the phial onto the bed. "Okay, I'm done."

With fast steps, she walks over to her purse and takes it.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I'm leaving", she says and adjusts the collar of her coat. "After all, that's what you want, isn't it? Hell, I wonder why you even bothered to call."

"Kate…"

"Oh no, don't you dare to Kate me now!" she snaps. "I am not going to let you insult me just so you feel better!" Angrily, she walks towards the door.

"I'm sorry!" he calls after her. "You hear me? I'm sorry!"

She swirls around and walks back. "You're always sorry", she says aloud. "You're always so sorry, Jayden, but I tell you what, it changes nothing, your god damn sorry changes nothing! Every time I meet you, it ends in a fucking mess!"

He lowers his gaze. "I am sor…"

"Oh god, shut up already!" she shouts.

Silence falls between them. She catches his eyes, the surprise, the nervousness, the hurt.

_This is impossible, _she thinks. _I can't stay. I've got no reason to stay. I've got no reason to shout at him. No reason to bother. _

_Well, I'm glad you finally decided to see some sense, Kate, _the voice says. _Took you long enough._

She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. "I've got to go."

"Kate…"

"No", she says forcefully and walks back to the door.

Yet, as her hand touches the doorknob, she suddenly hesitates. If she leaves now, she's basically giving up. It will be her final surrender. The voice will be satisfied. The voice longs for this, it has longed for it all of the time and she has shares its wish for almost a year. But she's not sure she still does. She is not sure she wants everything to end like this.

Slowly, she turns around. The voice gives a shriek of terror, but she doesn't pay any attention to it, just moves back towards him.

"Why did you call me?" she asks quietly.

He raises his head and shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" she repeats.

He closes his eyes and swallows hard. "I didn't want to be alone", he mutters.

The woman looks at him shortly, then drops her purse and walks back into the bathroom. She searches the medical cabinet for bandages and ointment, then returns to him. Without speaking, she bends down and carefully applies the ointment on his chest. He flinches as her fingers move over the bruises, but remains silent, just watches her as she bandages his body. She lays the ointment on the nightstand and attempts to rise, as he suddenly grabs for her arm.

"Stay with me. Please. I know I gave you every reason to leave, but…"

"Take off your trousers and move up to the other side", she says quietly. "These sheets are completely wasted."

He just looks at her, the plea written all over on his face.

"Kate…" he says.

"Do as I said", she interrupts him and he opens his belt and takes off his trousers.

The woman takes them, pulls the belt through the loops and lies it down on the nightstand, before she carries the trousers to the bathroom.

_God, he really owes me for this one, _she thinks and returns to the bedroom. She takes off her clothes and carefully lies down beneath him. His eyes are already closed and she wonders if he is still awake, asleep or unconscious. She hesitates, then runs her fingers through his hair and he slides closer, buries his face at her shoulder.

His body is cold, so cold it causes her to shiver. She wraps her legs around his and pulls up the blanket. _God, I hope he makes it through the night or I'll really end up in trouble, _she thinks and closes her eyes.

* * *

He wakes up the next morning by the sound of the ever present rain. He opens his eyes and, to his own astonishment, finds himself wrapped in a tight embrace. He looks at her and blinks. She's still asleep and he slowly slides back, tries not to wake her, as all of a sudden, a wave of pain covers his body.

He groans and presses his hand to his forehead. The headache is back and with it, the memory. He struggles to free himself out of her embrace, his knee colliding with her hip and he lays down on his back, the woman tosses and turns beneath him.

"Jayden?" she asks and her voice sounds tired.

"Yeah?" he forces out, his hands still covering his eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just a blinding headache", he replies, though it's not quite true. His chest hurts as well, but it's nothing compared to the hellish cramps.

The woman besides him wriggles free off the blanket. "I think I saw some painkillers in the medicine cabinet", she says and searches her way into the bathroom.

For a moment, he feels tempted to look for the phial she threw at him last night, but he also remembers what the tripto has done to him yesterday and he decides that, for now, he's okay enough to try something more… ordinary.

"Cover your eyes", the woman says as she comes back and he presses his hand onto his eyes.

She turns on the lights and he hears the door of the fridge. She sits down next to him.

"Here", she says.

Reluctantly, he lowers his hands. The pain in his head explodes and for a moment, he's sure he'll just throw up onto the bed. He grabs the painkiller and the water bottle out of her hands and swallows, before he turns around, presses the pillow against his face.

_God, please don't let me throw up in her company. _

"I'll turn off the lights", she says, but he shakes his head.

"No. No", he mutters.

She lies down again and her fingers trace carefully over his back. "You should see a doctor", she says quietly.

"I'm okay. Just a second."

She sighs, but remains silent. Slowly, the painkiller starts to work and the hellish cramps are replaced by a dull ache. Not perfect, but bearable.

He lets go off the pillow and looks at her. "I am sorry", he says. "For everything."

The woman puts her hair back behind her ears. "How do you feel?" she asks.

_Wasted. Absofuckinglutely wasted. Oh, and besides, I'm scared as hell, _he thinks, but doesn't say that. Instead, he just wraps his arms around her.

"Awful", he finally replies.

"You've got to stop that. You know that, don't you?" she asks.

He hesitates, then nods his head. "Yeah."

His fingers run down her spine and he slides his body closer to her comfortable warmth. She consoles him; her low breathing, her steady pulse, her soft touch. In her presence, everything seems less important, less serious.

"I'll quit", he breathes against her skin. "I'll quit if you come with me."

"Come with you?" she asks and sounds surprised.

"To Washington."

"What?"

He looks up at her. Her expression is surprised, even shocked.

"Please", he insists.

The woman stares at him and shakes her head. "Jayden, I can't simply go to Washington with you. I mean, I've got a job…"

"You can take holidays, can't you?"

"Yes, but…"

"Kate. Please."

She holds his gaze and for a second, just a second, he is sure she'll agree. But then, suddenly, her expression changes and she frees herself out of his embrace.

"I can't", she says and stands up.

Though his body protests to each movement, he rises as well. His legs feel shaky, but he manages to stay on his feet.

"You can't", he repeats slowly. "Or you don't want to?"

She picks up her clothes, avoids his gaze. "I have to use the bathroom."

"Well, no answer is an answer as well. It's weird, you know. I mean, I call you in the middle of the night and you rush over, pretending that you care…"

"I do care", she says and looks at him. "It's just…"

"What?" he asks.

The woman hesitates. "Can't I at least dress before we discuss this further?" she asks.

"Why? So you can just run out?"

"No. So I can settle my mind. You're not the only one in this room who has had a rough night, you know."

"I am sorry I caused you trouble", he says and his voice sounds cold, even to his ears.

"Can't you stop that? Just once?" she asks. "I didn't reproach you for calling me; all I'm saying is that I need a moment alone to… recollect myself. I'm not used to… things like this. Drugs. Injuries. Sudden invitations."

"Right", he gives in.

She nods and walks into the bathroom.

Thoughtfully, he runs his fingers through his hair. She's right. He asks a lot of her, considering they once agreed on meeting each other to make out. But they've been through a lot, as well. She's seen the worst part of him, in Indianapolis and he has seen the most vulnerable part of her, in Baltimore. Only they never talk about it. They handle it, somehow, but it's not enough. Not for him. He wants to find out who she really is and he wants her to feel the same way about him. He wants it, because she's been the first one to catch a glimpse behind his well-adjusted façade and still decided to stay. Because she's the only one who has been able to win not only his affection, but his trust, even though he still knows nothing about her, not even her surname.

His eyes fall on her purse. Usually, she takes it with her into the bathroom, but this time, it seems as if she has forgotten about it.

Slowly, he walks over and bends down. _Speaking about it_, he thinks_, I could have a look at her ID, couldn't I? _

He opens the first pocket, but hesitates. He's sure she won't be happy about it, but his curiosity wins over his doubts.

His hand slips inside the purse and takes out her wallet. He opens it, but except for some pennies and notes, it is empty. No credit card. No driver's license. No ID.

He raises an eyebrow and puts the wallet back, then opens the second pocket. The first thing he spots is the passports. There are four of them and as he takes them out, he realizes they are all from different countries.

One from America, one from the UK, one from Belgium and one from Canada.

He lines them up on the floor and flicks through them. The picture is always the same, only the names differ. Julia Dougal. Emily Kinnley. Manon Theissen. Jade Miller.

Confusion shines in his eyes. He looks at the purse and spots the handle of a gun. First, he thinks it's only a blank gun, but as he takes it out, he realizes it's a glock, an older model, obviously loaded.

_What the hell… _he thinks, as she steps out of the bathroom.

He looks up at her and for a moment, they just stare at each other, his expression confused, hers alarmed.

He attempts to stand up, the gun still in his hand, as she suddenly jumps forward and kicks him in the face. He falls over and the gun slides over the floor. He reaches out for it, but the woman is faster. She releases the safety catch and points the gun to his forehead.

"Stay down", she warns him, her expression cold and unattached.

He blinks his eyes and tries to recover from the sudden shock and the pain.

_What the hell is going on here?_

Despite her warning, he rises, but she reacts immediately. One of her feet meets his back and he groans with pain as his chest collides with the floor.

"I said: stay down", she repeats.

Anger finally fills his thoughts. Anger and self-contempt.

"Go on, shoot me. That's what you want, isn't it?" he asks and looks up, sounding braver than he actually feels.

_Yesterday the Origami killer, today the woman I sleep with. Great. Just great._

"Why would I?" she asks casually. "You're not exactly a threat to me, right now."

He stares at her. "I'll set every fucking cop in this city on your ass", he snaps.

"No, you won't. You're not going to ruin your reputation by admitting you've slept with a potential criminal for almost a year and never realized it."

She's right. She's right and it only increases his anger.

"I'll check the passports…" he starts.

"Good luck", she interrupts him.

"And your fingerprints. Your fingerprints are all over the room and…"

"And you will find them in no database", she states. "Now, if you would please give me the passports and the purse."

"Fuck you", he replies angrily.

The woman looks at him, then suddenly, hits the gun at his forehead. The pain inside his head explodes and he presses his hands at his temples, unable to hinder her from passing him. She puts the passports back into the purse and says, matter-of-factly:

"I warned you. But you didn't want to listen."

A shudder escapes his lips as he squirms with pain. He wants to rise, he really wants to, but he can't move. Not a single inch.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

The question is utterly absurd and under other circumstances, he would have laughed at her.

Something hits his elbow and he finally opens his eyes, his head still pounding heavily. It's his phone. She has given him his phone. He looks at her and for a second, he's sure she's going to explain everything, but her eyes regard him emotionless, cold.

"Call the ambulance", she says and finally, the door falls shut.

* * *

**Well, we've made it. Last chapter without a plot. Now it's time we reveal some details, don't you agree?**


	9. Cloak and dagger

**A/N: Thanks to everyone still reading this. I know, this chapter took me some time, but I've been quite busy. As well, thanks for the reviews, favs and follows. **

_Alice came to a fork in the road. 'Which road do I take?' she asked.  
'Where do you want to go?' responded the Cheshire Cat.  
'I don't know,' Alice answered.  
'Then,' said the Cat, 'it doesn't matter."_

_(Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland)  
_

**Chapter 9: Cloak and dagger**

_Washington, Wednesday, 2__th__ November 2011, 2:28 p.m._

Special agent in charge Adam Petko doesn't believe in fame. Even more, he regards it as a lingering danger, a constant disturbance. An unwanted distraction.

Unfortunately, he's been proven right just an hour ago, as the director has ordered him into his office.

Appointments with the Director are rare, very rare. They usually only happen when your department has either won good, or bad publicity for the Bureau.

To be honest, he cannot decide which possibility is worse. His department has never caught _his_ attention before. He should have seen it coming. All these headlines. All the greedy reporters. The talk show.

There were times when nobody would have cared. Times when you only attracted attention by mingling with national security concerns.

But nowadays, the nation's focus isn't on terrorist anymore. It's back on serial killers, on usual crimes.

Adam Petko wishes the old days back. The days when he chose the cases, when he didn't have to fake a smile to the director's choice.

His eyes fall on the file on his desk and he shakes his head. It's not their division. It's not his specialty.

It's a nightmare.

He hesitates as he picks up the receiver, reluctant even to make the call, reluctant to even speak about it.

But actually, he has no choice; the director has asked for _him_, he wants_ him_, because the newspapers called him the new hero for our times, because he's been on TV, because of all the glory.

He doesn't begrudge him the fame. And the praise. He has solved the case under adverse circumstances, has solved it in five days, whereas the local police haven't been able to make any progress in two years.

But, besides his aversion to fame, there's still Indianapolis.

To err, to fail, is human, even for Federal agents. The failure isn't the critical point, not at all. It's the way he has reacted to it, the exposure of the complications with the ARI.

This case needs absolute concentration, it needs... perfection.

_A case that makes you and a case that breaks you._

He sighs and finally calls his secretary. "Miss Miller", he says calmly. "Cancel my appointment with Ambury and tell agent Jayden I want to speak with him immediately."

He can think about this over and over, but in the end, it is not his decision. Sure, he could have made it his, he could have told the Director about Indianapolis, but first of all, he believes incidents like this are the concern of the department, not of the whole Bureau. And second, he expects all his agents to decide reasonable for, or against, a case.

Refusal is always better than failure.

A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts.

"Come in", he says and leans back in the chair.

As Norman Jayden enters his office, he eyes him closely. It's been four weeks since the Origami killer case has been and closed and though he has sent him on vacation immediately, after all the press events, the young agent still looks exhausted. Worn.

Though, honestly, he has never seen him in another state. Hell, he probably looked just the same, in his profiler days.

"Norman, sit down", he says and waves at the chair in front of his desk.

It's his habit, his tactic to address his agents by their first name. He creates a safe, familiar atmosphere, because he hopes it will award him with the truth.

"Sir?" the younger agent asks, his voice just a nuance too formal.

Norman Jayden hasn't forgotten Indianapolis, either. He's still waiting for the tarring and the feathering.

"The director called me in this morning", he says, his tone matter-of-factly. "He wants you on a case."

Surprise shines in the eyes of his agent, surprise and even… doubt. "Me?" he asks slowly.

"Well, your successful resolution to the Origami killer case certainly paid off for the FBI", he explains. "The headlines in the newspapers, the interview... It's a high acknowledgement of your work that the director offers you this special case. But I'll be honest with you, Norman: it plays in a completely different league. If you accept – if w_e _accept – we'll find ourselves under the constant watch of the media, probably every other department and the director himself. Any slightest mistake and we'll be forced to pack our stuff and end up in a cupboard-like office somewhere in Michigan – if high command shows us any mercy."

"I can refuse?"

"Of course. Even more, I expect you to refuse if you feel you're not up to the job. This is not Indianapolis, Norman. I cannot save your back if anything like this happens again."

The younger agent lowers his gaze in discomfort. "I understand", he replies.

"Good. I assume you understand as well that the case is classified top secret and therefore information to the press will only be passed by me, or the director himself."

"Sir, I was ordered to give those interviews. I would have never…"

He waves his hand. "I know. I am just stating the facts." He opens the file, takes out the photograph and hands it over to the man opposite of him.

"Special agent Jack Kolson. Sixteen months ago, the CIA infiltrated him into a minor terrorist group, just established in D.C. The CIA wanted to know whether they were independent, or belonged to one of the common organizations and in which sector they were operating. Kolson's reports stated they operated on their own, obviously aiming to obtain information about other groups all over the world. They planned to become a sort of third-party logistics provider. Not only weapons, but also information and High-Tec support. At first, they didn't make much progress – they bought assistants of senators and tried to spy them out, but quickly blew up – but then, they kidnapped two employees of the Homeland Security. The CIA got suspicious by the detailed and polished plan, but as they found out that their undercover agent had changed the sides, it was already too late. Kolson kidnapped and killed an employee of the office of the secretary of defense, two civilians and his contact agent before he took a flight. The terrorist group was broken up, but most of the members escaped before the CIA could arrest them. For over a year, the CIA tried to trace them, but all they found were rumors and abandoned hideouts. Until, a week ago, senator Alfred Hoogan was abducted. The CIA supervised him because they suspected him of maintaining a relationship with Francoise Delatour, a notorious weapon dealer, known for his contacts to terrorists all over the world. Nevertheless, the case was transferred to us, to department five, to the CIA's utmost anger. Senator Hoogan's body was found yesterday night, together with Kolson's fingerprints all over the scene. He did not even attempt to conceal his return. The CIA claimed the case immediately, but high command refused and confirmed the transfer to the FBI. As you can imagine, the CIA's quite pissed off. They ensured their support, but secretly, they hope we fail to arrest Kolson, just as they did."

He pauses and his blue eyes take a close look at the watery green ones of his agent.

"But this is not exactly our division. Sir", Jayden says, his expression slightly confused.

"No, it's not. Yet the Director seems to have enough confidence in your profiling skills to entrust us with the case. I leave the decision to you, Norman. But I expect a well thought-out and reasonable decision. This case can push your career, but it can as well end it."

Silence falls between them. He waits patiently for the younger man to settle his thoughts, while his eyes linger on the black leg of the ARI, visible in his chest pocket.

He has never used the glasses. They are a feature for the profilers only, futile for a man in his position. He knows how they work, he knows about the difficulties, but he has never felt the wish to go into detail.

"What about the ARI?" he asks and breaks the silence. "Any complications?"

The agent raises his head and for a second, he seems to hesitate, but then, he slowly shakes his head. "No. No, I manage."

He nods and looks at the monitors to his left. Sometimes, he asks himself if the technical equipment is the only reason the FBI still exists. Sometimes, it appears to him the high command relies more on their little gadgets than on their agents.

"I'll take it", the younger man says and he focuses his eyes back on him. "If you don't… object. Sir."

"Alright", he says. "I will inform the Director and see that the files are transferred to your ARI. Department 5 is still working on the crime scene report, so I suggest you start with the CIA files. And let me know if you need anything. After all, we're now one of the most important departments in the whole FBI. I guess we can get everything we want." _Except our independence._

* * *

_Washington, Wednesday, 2__th__ November 2011, 3:04 p.m._

Norman Jayden is on a mountain top. The abyss is approximately two meters behind him, but he does not mind it. He knows he is safe. He knows it's just a creation of the ARI. He likes the woods better, though. They remind him of his youth, of the strolls in the woods with his mother. She loved to experience nature, see how the seasons changed by the colors of the leaves.

The ARI creates leaves in a more constant, almost boring brown, yet he easily falls for them, believes the woods are real, forgets about time. And after a while, when the leaves start to tremble, the tanks appear. And they won't go away, not anymore, not even when he takes the glasses off.

Triptocaine works, for now, triptocaine and another Kleenex. The tanks vanish. The blood vanishes.

Only it takes longer and longer every time, longer for his vision to become clear, longer for his breathing to become calm.

Therefore, he avoids the woods. Chooses the mountain top. Since he knows it's just a fake, it maximizes the chances he keeps track of the time.

The CIA files have already been uploaded. The reports are detailed and yet, completely superficial.

They prove the CIA has been caught completely unawares by Jack Kolson's betrayal. And according to his personal file, they aren't even to blame.

He has been one of their best undercover agents, a calm, stress-resistant, intelligent, tactical and obedient man. Thirteen years in duty and no failure. No offence. No objection.

Not the type of man to fall for money, or fanaticism. No mercenary you can recruit with ideology.

There's no obvious reason for his sudden breakout. Actually, it doesn't make any sense. Just like the fingerprints on the crime scene. He's been trained to leave no trace, so he must have left them on purpose. Not as a message, more like a statement.

_Catch me if you can. _

He closes the personal file and checks for the report of last night's crime scene, but it is still not available, leaving him pretty empty handed for the moment. For a second, he feels tempted to call department 5, ask them what's so fucking hard about writing a report, but he bets they are pissed off already. Just like the CIA hates to be passed over, the various departments of the FBI quarrel over cases, cases like this one, a case which attracts attention.

He hopes the report will be complete, at least. He remembers working with a guy of department 5, two or three years ago. A real slacker, interested in nothing but his appearance, taking every opportunity to fraternize with the press.

He just cares about solutions. All he aims for is to close a case. Pretty ironic this attitude awarded him with everything other agents dream of.

He hadn't expected it, not at all. The sudden glorification had made him quite uncomfortable. He had avoided all newspaper kiosks as his face had covered the god damn magazine, but he hadn't been able to escape the talk show.

Maybe he would have taken it easier if it hadn't been for the constant fear of conviction.

Attention had never brought him any luck. Probably the only lesson he's learnt in life. Hell, he's got a scar proving this theory. A scar and unidentified fingerprints.

They are safe and sound in the ARI, but they don't reveal anything. He compares them to the thousands of fingerprints in the database every day, but they never match. The ARI also provides him with every airport she has accessed with one of her various passports, lines out the time she has spent in dozens and dozens of cities, but it never catches up with her after Philadelphia.

As if she has simply disappeared. Disappeared, or faked another identity, invented another silly name.

The investigator insides him demands to solve the puzzle, nevertheless. Seeks answers. Seeks to find her. Find her and lock her up in jail.

But for the first time in his life, he rejects. Sounds the retreat. He keeps telling himself it's because he's got no clue to start with, but in reality, he fears the consequences. Fears to discover her motive. Fears to discover his failures. He's been so easy to manipulate, despite his nature, despite all is training, only by a glimpse look out of her eyes, only by a kiss, a touch.

She spread her legs, but he let her in. Damn it, he almost treated her like his fucking anchor, when in reality, she was nothing but a devious Siren.

Frustrated, he takes off the ARI and rubs his temples. He wishes he could just stop thinking about it. Wishes he could… forget everything, wishes the tripto could delete this part of his memory, instead of covering it up for some solemn, comforting hours, before it returns, before reality snaps back in. The reality which refuses to work for him, the reality he probably doesn't work for.

But the ARI... The ARI works for him. It always does. The ARI builds up a world of facts, a world of mathematic precision, based on the law of cause and effect. Organized. Logical… Safe.

* * *

_Washington, Wednesday, 2__th__ November 2011, 8:11 p.m._

The woman heads down the streets with fast, almost vicious steps. The rain pours down merciless on her slim figure, drenches her from head to toe, sneaks into the collar of her jacket, soaks her tight jeans and sticks them to her skinny legs. She blinks to avoid the raindrops reaching her eyes and her hands press tighter at her chest, to save her precious possession, the reason for her hasty visit to the streets in the dark. It's nothing but black ink on white papers, but for her, it's the Holy Grail, her only link to the events. The only reason she leaves her apartment, the only thing she cares about.

As she arrived four weeks ago, the mere existence of the apartment caught her by surprise. So constant, so unchanged, as if nothing had ever happened. As if it had waited for her to return.

But the king knows her. The king sees through her. The apartment is still there because he wants it to lull her into a false sense of security. He raised the alarm as soon as she set one foot on Washington's ground and only withholds to teach her another lesson, a lesson of inferiority and inadequacy.

But he won't fool her so easily. She won't fall for all the pretences.

Not again.

Fuck Philadelphia. Fuck the rain. Fuck him.

No, no. Fuck her. How could she have acted so careless? How could she have allowed him to force her into a corner, like a wounded animal?

_Because you are, _the voice says. _You are the shot deer on a wasteland and from your thoughts pour down eager and uncontrolled, just like the rain. It's your flaw, honey. Your character defect. And the king knows. Kings know everything. _

The woman enters the apartment building and allows one hand to slip down from her chest and into her coat pocket to search her key. She takes the stairs up to the sixth floor, as she used to, ages ago, every day. It startles her. These ordinary activities. After a year in the wild, she finds it hard to adapt to this normality – or maybe it's just because she knows it's only a brief retrospect.

She opens the door and takes off her coat. The newspaper slides down, almost falls down to the floor, but she catches it quickly with her left hand. She looks at it, relieved. It's undamaged. Just as she closes the front door and hangs up her coat, she realizes the difference in the atmosphere. Like a deer scents the hunter.

But unlike the deer, she does not think of elopement. She blinks her eyes and wraps her right hand around the handle of her gun. There's no use in escaping. She's accepted this once and she accepts it now, as she walks over into the living-room.

The king sits in the old leather chair. He wears his black coat and holds a glass of cognac in his right hand. He looks like the fucking godfather. _I'm making you an offer you cannot deny._

She suppresses the smirk on her lips and keeps her expression blank as she walks further into the room.

"Please, lay down the gun, Kate", the king says with his stoical voice, not even looking at her.

For the blink of an eye, she hesitates, but in the end, she obeys and places it at the living-room desk.

The king just waves his left hand. "Sit down."

"I'm fine with standing", she replies and steps backwards. He may be polite to her, but she sees no sense in returning it.

"Yes. But I am not." He finally turns his head and his grey eyes linger on her.

Slowly, she sits down in the other chair.

"Not a complete fleabag at least, hm? You should invest some money in an umbrella. You are not a beautiful sight when you're drenched."

She shots him a glance, aware it won't impress him at all. "Why are you here?"

His lips curl a little. "Why am I here? Interesting." He puts the drink down on the table. "Why are you here, Kate? Should I anticipate the doubtful pleasure of a wedding invitation?"

_He knows_, she thinks and of course, the voice attacks immediately. _Of course he knows, idiot! What did you expect? That he'd lose you? That you'd be able to sneak out on him?_

"I need passports", she says and keeps her voice calm and steady.

"Already? What happened to the five passports I handed you over so generously?" he asks and folds his hands.

"They became useless", she answers elusively.

"Oh, indeed? Why?"

_Forget it, honey. No easy way out, this time. _

Unconsciously, she shakes her head to get rid of the voice, before she answers: "They fell into the wrong hands."

"No wedding invitation, then. That's a pity", the king says calmly and stands up, arranging the collar of his coat. "You have the passports tomorrow."

The woman raises an eyebrow. "That's it?" she asks. "No execution command?"

Another creepy, little smile sneaks on his lips. "Well, your disobedience didn't get you anywhere, so I expect you finally stop making a fool of yourself and follow my suggestions."

Anger shines in her eyes, but it seems just to amuse him.

"I really don't understand what you expected to achieve by your… method", he adds indifferently as he fetches his gloves out of his pocket.

"Of course you do", she replies.

"Yes, of course I do", he mutters and raises his head. "Am I not glad you always fall victim to your eagerness _before _I have to interfere?"

She eyes him closely. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the honorable Federal Bureau of Investigation, department 11 C, governed by special agent in charge Adam Petko, to be precisely, has just decided to call Agent Norman Jayden into play."

The woman just stares at him. He raises an eyebrow.

"A predictable choice, don't you agree? The only good press the FBI received recently was caused by the heroic, unbelievable solution to the Origami killer case. It's only logical to send new born heroes to Waterloo."

She swallows hard, but her voice is calm, controlled, as she replies: "I suppose he's as good as dead, then."

The king nods his head slowly. "Yes. What a shame you won't be here to play the crying widow on his grave." He pauses and his eyes pierce at her. "Or will you, Kate?"

She holds his gaze for an eternity, before she finally answers. "No."

"Good", the king says and walks towards the door. "I expect your departure by tomorrow. I have been very generous to you, Kate. Don't disappoint me."

The door falls shut and the world turns silent. Empty. The woman blinks her eyes in a desperate attempt to understand, really understand the king's words, but her self-protection rebels against her, tries to shelter her from the truth.

_So close. So close._

Her eyes fall on the gun and her mind goes back to Charlottesville, back to the goddamn alleyway. Back to the point where she could have ended it all. But no. No. Instead she had had to save the ass of the man whose face has been all over the fucking newspapers.

_Well, at least you've been right in one point, honey, _the voice says. _He could have been useful to you._

Her body trembles with anger. The voice watches her amused, even laughs out as she grabs the empty glass the king left behind and throws it against the wall.

_Everything's shattered, isn't it? _it says. _Just as shattered as it's been. Give it up, darling. You cannot make any change. And I'm afraid, he is not going to make any change, either. The king promises his death. And kings always keep their promises. _

Slowly, the woman sinks down to the couch and covers her eyes with her hands_. _

_You know how this is called, don't you? Checkmate. All moves made. _

For a blissful moment, she feels tempted to agree. Agree and ground arms. But there's still the rage, the emotion of her own, held captive so long that now, it burns her nerves to catch her attention. And all of a sudden, it conjures up the idea, the ludicrous, stupid plan…

_Department 11 C, Adam Petko._

The woman lowers her hands and blinks her eyes. Utter madness. The king will never allow her to set one foot into the J. Edgar Hoover building… Unless…

"Unless he never considered the possibility I'd turn myself in", she mutters.

The voice rolls its eyes and shakes its head. _Well, why would he? You'll never walk into the building. You wouldn't do it even if you'd stand right in front of it, now. Because you'd need to go back, honey. You'd need to go back being the person you've been, before everything shattered. And you don't even dare to remember her, you have created various identities, used them to hide yourself from her…_

"Yet I am in a rage", she whispers and looks at the pieces of the glass. "Yes, I most certainly am."

The voice watches how she rises and takes her gun, paralyzed by confusion and disbelief.

_You won't make it, _it finally says as she takes her coat and opens the front door. _You'll never make it. The king will not allow it. He will stop you…_

"Yes", the woman agrees. "But I'd rather let him stop me, than you."

* * *

The cab holds 27 minutes later. The woman looks out of the window, a sudden feeling of insecurity keeping her in the seat. Only the street separates her from the entrance doors of the J. Edgar Hoover building now, but it seems like an inviolable border.

"Can't you just hold right before it?" she asks the driver.

"Sorry", he answers. "But that's strictly forbidden. 21 dollars, please."

Slowly, she nods her head and searches for her wallet, as suddenly, the driver's door is opened.

"Keep the change", a dark, male voice says.

She recognizes it immediately, but before she can even attempt to move, a hand wraps around her wrist, kind and helpful for any observer, but merciless at her skin.

"Katie, honey, I've been dying to see you!"

He pulls her out of the car and she loses balance, stumbles against him.

"Now now, aren't _you_ lucky to see _me_?" he laughs.

She tries to step backwards, fumbles for her gun, but the man just pulls her closer, immobilizes her by pressing his body against hers, imitating the picture of a reunited couple.

"Behave, darling. We don't want any complications, do we?" he whispers into her ear.

"Fuck you", she snaps and struggles to escape the embrace.

"Don't be so harsh, Katie. I am just here for your protection."

"Fuck your protection", she hisses.

The man releases her hands and grabs her shoulders, forces her to look up at him. His eyes still captivate her, even after all these years. The light blue. So radiant. So piercing.

"Shame", he says, "I would have been glad to assist. But well, if you wanna play the shrew…"

He pushes her backwards with full force, right onto the street.

She tries to keep her balance, but suddenly, wheels squeak and her body meets the metal bodywork of a car. Her feet are lifted from the ground and her body slides over a carbon black hood, before it collides hard with the wet and solid asphalt.

Pain shoots through her body as she turns onto her back and catches for air. To her utmost anger, she can feel tears filling her eyes. She blinks to force them away, then slowly raises her head and opens her eyes. The car has driven off, but the man still stands on the pavement. His eyes linger on her, but then he steps forward. Finally, she jumps to her feet. Her right knee protests painfully and refuses to follow her order to run. She stumbles across the street, her eyes fixed on the glass doors, only meters away. She knows she isn't going to make it; her vision is blurry and the pain in her head makes her queasy. Yet, to her surprise, she arrives on the other side of the street and though she is sure he'll pull her back any second, her fists suddenly hammer against the doors. One of the receptionists looks up from her desk and stares at her, rises to her feet.

The woman risks a look over her shoulder, sure the man will be right behind her, sure she will have failed, but he has disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed him up. She loses balance, as the doors open, stumbles against the receptionist.

"Ma'am?" the receptionist asks. "Are you alright?"

The woman raises her head and her eyes fall on two security officers approaching them.

"I need to speak to special agent Petko", she forces out.

"Are you an agent?" the receptionist asks. "Ma'am?"

She turns her gaze, focuses on the other woman. "I've got information… information on Jack Kolson…"

The receptionist looks at her, irritated and finally, the woman speaks out the sentence she's been denying for over a year. "I'm his partner."

* * *

_Washington, Wednesday, 2__th__ November 2011, 9:52 p.m._

Norman Jayden hurries through the almost abandoned corridors, his wet shoes creaking on the floor. Twenty minutes ago, he received the call from Petko, the order to return to the office immediately, but the man didn't give him any explanation why. He is certain, almost certain it's about the case, maybe another murder, or something new about the crime scene, but still, he feels uneasy. He hates to be left in the dark, hates when people hide their intentions from him.

_Well, I should probably get used to it. After all, it seems as if every single person I meet acts like that, _he thinks, with a hint of sarcasm.

He turns left, passes the security door and the first interrogation rooms. Miss Miller told him where to go. Miss Miller, the complete opposite of all the Miss Moneypennys in the Bond movies, with her grey, unattached eyes and her neat desk. She, as well, hasn't given him any hint; she has just sat there, in the office, placing papers in files, as if it was just another working day and not ten o'clock in the evening.

He takes the next right and his eyes immediately fall on the two security officers, guarding the door to interrogation room number seven.

He raises an eyebrow. Maybe department 5 caught a suspect. Or witness. _I shouldn't have left my office so early, _he thinks.

He enters the surveillance room and spots Adam Petko standing right in front of the one-way-mirror.

"Take a look", he says, without even turning around.

Slowly, he approaches him. A woman sits on the white desk, her hands cuffed. Her dark hair is wet, therefore, he cannot make out whether it is black, or just a shade of brown. Her face is hidden from them, eyes fixed on the left wall.

"You recognize her?" Petko asks and finally, looks at him.

His face is stern, serious. Tensed.

"Should I?" he asks back and wishes his voice wouldn't sound so surprised.

"Look closely", his superior says and folds his arms before his chest.

_Futile, _he thinks, but nevertheless follows the advice and has another look. Yet, all he spots is a hole in her coat, right at her left elbow.

He shakes his head. "No. No, I don't…"

The woman's eyes travel down to the handcuffs. She tries to slip her hands through them, but of course, the attempt is just stupid. He's sure she clenches her teeth, but as she raises her eyes to the one-way-mirror, her expression is blank. Empty.

And familiar.

_No, _he thinks. _No, this can't be…_

Her eyes pierce him, as if the glass shielding him from her doesn't exist. As if she knows he is standing there. Hot and cold shivers run down his spine. His right hand trembles slightly and he clenches it to a fist.

_I'm wasted, _he thinks. _I'm absolutely wasted. Fuck, how the hell shall I explain this?_

He swallows hard and looks at his superior. Petko's expression hasn't changed a bit. "Sir…" he starts, but the man just waves his hand to silence him.

He lowers his gaze and prepares for the dressing down of his life, prepares to face the accusations, while his mind searches desperately for a logical explanation he knows doesn't exist.

"It's okay", Petko says. "It was worth a try."

His voice is calm, matter-of-factly.

"Wh… What?" he stutters, completely irritated.

"I thought you'd maybe picked up something in the CIA file that explains who she is. Something I had missed."

"She's related to the Kolson case?" he asks and now, even his voice starts to tremble.

_Shit. Oh shit. But why isn't he… shouting at me? _

His superior sighs and shrugs his shoulders. "Well, that's what she said to the receptionist as she fell into her hands. She claimed to be his partner. There's no proof for her statement, though. She's got no ID and her fingerprints are not in the system. And since you just confirmed the files don't mention her, it might be nothing, after all."

He stares at his superior and finally, realizes it's not about him at all. Though it's her, it's clearly her, Petko knows nothing about their... meetings, knows nothing about Philadelphia.

_How can this be possible?_ he thinks.

"So…" he starts and clears his throat. "So you just called me to… prove she's lying?"

"I'm not sure she is", Petko says slowly. "The receptionist saw her fighting with a man just across the street. He pushed her right in front of car. That's why they decided to help her and let her in." The man pauses and looks at him. "I think we should interrogate her. Try and find out if her story makes any sense."

"Interrogate her?" he asks, horrified.

His superior raises an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"

_No, no. Not at all. I mean, I've slept with the woman who is a suspect in the case the Director just transferred to me, but why should this be a problem?_

"No", he lies. "No, of course not."

"Good", his superior says. "I'll stay here and watch, in case you need assistance."

_Assistance. Yeah, right, _he thinks and exits the room. As he lays his hand on the doorknob of interrogation room seven, he hesitates. _So, that's it. I'll make one step into the room and she'll reveal everything. She'll reveal everything, and I'll be totally fucked up. Fucked up, just because I couldn't resist those god damn eyes. The oldest story in the world. _

He shakes his head, then opens the door. The woman looks up, but against his fears, her eyes show nothing. No recognition. No surprise. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"I asked for a coffee, about an hour ago", she says and her voice sounds so aloof, so familiar that his mind jumps back to their last encounter immediately.

_No. No. Don't even start to remember, _he thinks and struggles to keep his expression distant, superior.

"Oh and I'd be certainly thankful if you could finally get my hands out of these stupid cuffs. It's starting to hurt", she adds and frowns at the solid material.

"I'm afraid that's not possible", he says matter-of-factly and sits down in front of her. He folds his hands, just in case the tremor returns and focuses on her. She looks like a drowned rat, her hair messy, the coat dirty, but as she looks at him, her eyes are still the same god damn captivating abyss they've been weeks before.

"Why?" she asks. "Think I could escape out of the Bureau of Investigation? You're overestimating my abilities."

_Most certainly not. At least, not again. _"Who are you?" he asks.

A small grin sneaks onto her lips. "You don't know, do you?"

He's pretty sure she'd like to add the word "still", self-satisfied she ended up being right with everything she's said in Philadelphia.

"Should I?" he asks, content his voice sounds calm, controlled.

The woman shakes her head and… chuckles, as if she actually enjoys this, as if _he's_ wearing the handcuffs, not her.

"No surprises, then", she says absent-mindedly, before she returns her attention to him. "You're really lucky I survived my little encounter with the car… Agent Jayden."

A part of him feels relieved she finally finishes the masquerade, finally heralds the end. Nevertheless, he can't keep his eyes from widen in shock by the sound of his name.

"You…" he begins and swallows hard. "You know me?"

The woman leans back in the chair. "Yes", she says.

Suddenly, his hands feel sweaty and he lowers his gaze to the table. _Game over, Norman, _he thinks. _Well, you didn't really believe you'd make it out of this, did you?_

"Well, everybody does", the woman says carelessly. "I mean, there hasn't been a way around your face three weeks ago."

Surprised, he raises his head. Her eyes glitter with amusement, clear proof she is aware of his miserable situation. "I'm kind of disappointed, though", she continues. "I pictured you… taller."

_Why doesn't she convict me? Why does she… go on with this?_

"You said you're Jack Kolson's partner…" he begins, but she interrupts him.

"Actually, I was. I'm sorry. You have to understand, it's been quite disturbing to confess my… involvement."

"Did he follow you?" he continues.

The woman raises an eyebrow. "Don't be stupid. If Jack had followed me, I wouldn't sit here and talk to you. No, no. For the moment, he doesn't care about my whereabouts."

"Then who did?" His voice is clear, again. Clear and determined, as it should be.

"Well, the round table, of course", she replies.

He stares at her. "The round table? Like in the legend?"

"Yes. King Arthur's noble knights. Led by Sir Lancelot himself. God, you really don't know anything, do you?"

For a moment, he just looks at her, then he rises. "I don't have time to play games with you", he says, careless and arrogant, though in truth, he feels angry. Annoyed.

"But I don't play games with you, agent Jayden", she says, her tone sickly sweet. "But Jack Kolson will. He will play a game with you, but he won't even tell you the rules. I know them, though. I've been in this game once. But well, if you're not interested, it's fine by me. I'll just enjoy the comfort of FBI custody until he pops a cap in your ass. Maybe the next profiler will be more interested in listening to me."

His eyes narrow her. "Spill it", he says, not even trying to hide his anger anymore.

The woman jangles the handcuffs. "Release me, first. I can't think feeling so… confined. Besides, I surely deserve a little hospitality for all the things I've done, don't you agree?"

The smirk on her lips proves she's not just talking about the car crash. He wishes he could wipe it away and clenches his teeth. Reluctantly, he takes out his key and walks over to her.

Her eyes linger on him as he opens the cuffs, anxious not to touch her. As the lock opens, she slightly turns her head and he can feel her hot breath on his skin as she says: "Now, that wasn't too hard, was it?"

Her voice is low, playful, seductive. He backs up immediately and sits down again, his expression stern. "Tell me what you know."

"Everything you know", she replies "And, of course, the truth."

"What does that mean, the truth?" he asks.

"It means I know what the CIA has been hiding from you."

He eyes her, doubtfully.

"You don't believe me, do you?" she states. "

"No", he replies. "I think you're just trying to show off."

She laughs, shortly. "Yes. It's really hard to believe an agency like the CIA, known for its cloak and dagger operations, could hide any information", she says ironically.

"Prove it."

The woman leans forward. "Tell me, according to your… source, how many people has Jack Kolson killed? In Washington, excluding senator Hoogan?"

"Four", he replies reluctantly.

"Two civilians. A member of the office of the secretary of defense…"

"And his contact agent of the CIA. Yeah, I know all that, thank you", he snaps.

She smiles and shakes her head, slowly. "No."

"No? You mean there have been more?" he asks.

"No. I mean the contact agent is still alive."

"This is impossible", he says.

"I assure you, it's quite possible. Actually, it's pretty easy to cover up the death of an undercover agent. Just takes a few steps – fake and ID, a passport, hand over some money, persuade the person to hide… Rather uncomplicated."

"Where is he?" he asks.

The woman raises an eyebrow, but remains silent.

"I said: where is he?" he repeats, louder.

"Did I say he?" she asks back calmly.

He stares at her and all of a sudden, he understands. _The gun… The passports… But this is insane… Absolutely insane. It makes no sense… _

"You", he says slowly.

"Special agent Kate O'Neal, at your service." Her eyes travel to the one-way-mirror. "Your superior might maybe want to call assistant director Graham Harris", she says, her voice unaffected. "He'll confirm my identity."

He still stares at her, caught in a mixture of shock and disbelief. The woman leans back in the chair and looks at him. "Oh, and do you reckon I could get a coffee, now?"

**A/N: Alright, I promised Kate would finally get a name and well, here it is. Together with her profession. It's been pretty predictable, though, hasn't it? Anyways, if you're nevertheless still interested, we've got more than one case still to solve. But, if you think the plot sucks and I should rather go back playing tennis, don't be shy to tell me. (I should do some sports again, after all.)**


	10. Consent

**A/N: Oh, well, I'm not sure if anybody is still reading this... but well... if... I apologize for the delay... Really...****  
**

"_There is no real direction here, neither lines of power nor cooperation._

_Decisions are never really made – at best they manage to emerge, from a _

_chaos of peeves, whims, hallucinations and all around assholery."_

_(Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow)_

**Chapter 10: Consent**

_Washington, Wednesday, 2__th__ November 2011, 09:44 p.m._

Thomas Willard Ramsey walks down the poorly lit corridor to finally meet his own bad and miserable fate, like his mother used to promise him in his teenage years, uses to promise him still, on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

He adjusts the tie he has bought only three hours ago, after receiving the order, the order he hasn't carried out. Couldn't carry out, after the glorious reunion with what's left of his incarnate childhood dream. Not that it's much. She's pulled quite a stunt back there, on the street, right in front of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, but it's been desperation. Mere desperation. She's at least two points adrift. _Again._

He opens the solid metal door, the futuristic gate to hell and immediately, the guardian, Angela Belkowski, rises from the chair, only to award him with the kind of smile women believe to be seductive. He has a knack for women, thanks to his genetic advantages, his tall build, his dark blonde hair, his bold blue eyes.

He grins back at her, charming, wooing. "Don't bother, Angela. He expects me."

The secretary sits down without contradiction and he opens the large mahogany door, probably the only door in the building that is not secured. His reputation allows the king to feel safe. His reputation and the revolver in his drawer. Old-fashioned.

He wipes the grin off his lips as the door falls shut. The man sitting on the desk looks up and leans back in the chair. The grey eyes linger on him, blank and empty, offer him no hint to the consequences awaiting him – but well, he should know them, shouldn't he? After all these years. All these glorious years.

The king folds his hands and finally, speaks. "You let her go."

It is not a question. It is never a question.

"Yes", he replies, his intonation as stoical as the other man's appearance.

"Sit down."

He can hardly resist the urge to roll his eyes. The two chairs in front of the desk are too low. Whenever he has to sit down in one of them, it gives him the feeling he's just a god damn midget, or a pupil in the principal's office. Actually, a very fitting description.

Yet, he obeys. He doesn't want to act like a sulky kid. The difference between him and her.

The king's gaze is still focused on him, but he doesn't say anything. In fact, the room is completely quiet, except for the slight sounds of the technical devices, covered behind the antique interior.

He hates silence. Hates it more than anything else in the world. It's his flaw.

"I assume you want me to hand over my gun", he says and cannot prevent his voice from sounding jokily.

The king's lips curl into the grimace of a smile. He looks like a shark. A shark smelling blood.

"As you very well know, I cannot tolerate disobedience", he says casually.

He nods his head and attempts to take his gun out of his holster, but the king stops him with just a wave of his hand.

"Keep it."

For the blink of an eye, irritation sneaks into his eyes. The king raises an eyebrow in amusement.

"You really believe I hadn't considered this would happen?" he asks, but the question is merely rhetorical. As he doesn't reply the man sighs and shakes his head. "I beg you. I am aware of this… dynamic ever since I sent you both to Las Vegas. It is a pity, though."

_Yeah, hell, right, it really is. _

"Then you shouldn't have sent me tonight", he replies.

"As I just told you, I calculated the probable ends and decided I could live with either. At least, for now."

"So, that means I'm not fired?"

"Not now, agent Ramsey. Not now."

He attempts to rise, but the elder man stops him by waving his hand again. "Stay seated. I'm expecting a phone call. And I'll need a driver. Afterwards."

"I assume you already know where we'll be going, then, too. Sir."

The king raises an eyebrow. "J. Edgar Hoover Building", he replies and looks at him. "Where else?"

* * *

_Washington, Wednesday, 2__th__ November 2011, 10:22 p.m._

Norman Jayden rises from the chair. The eyes of the woman follow him, brows up, expression somewhere between amusement and… suspense.

"I'll see if I can get you a coffee", he says.

It's a lie, naturally. He is definitely not going to play her waiter, _no ma'am_, CIA or not, but he needs to get out of the room, because right now, he does not know how to proceed, what to ask next. He does not look back to check if she buys it, hell, he doesn't give a damn if she does. After all, she's still a suspect, she's still in custody and even if she rolled the dice, it's not her turn to move.

The guards outside are perfectly calm, stoical and he thinks they probably have the better job, no thinking, no twists and shades…

Stupid. As if he could ever stop thinking.

He enters the surveillance room and stops in the middle of the door, at the strange sight of his superior kicking the chair, causing it to flip over. He is a calm man, Adam Petko, calm and reasonable, but the way he wipes his lips with his hands suggests tension, angry bewilderment… And for the first time, he thinks Petko was right this morning. The case is a nightmare.

"Sir…" he says, pauses, waits for the man to turn around.

Petko faces him immediately and lowers his hand, clears his expression in a nano-second.

"You quit?" his superior asks and his intonation is matter-of-factly.

He envies him for it. Wonders if he will ever achieve this almost chameleon like ability to change mood and appearance in the blink of an eye.

"Yeah. Yeah, I… ran out of questions."

His superior raises an eyebrow. "Strange. I think we still have a lot of questions that need answers."

It does not quite sound like a reproach, but his head is still in the noose and he knows one tiny mistake, one inadequate sentence and he's wasted.

"Of course", he says and keeps his voice as casual as possible. "I just wanted to coordinate our next steps."

Petko takes a short look through the mirror, then fixes his eyes back on him. "Easy, isn't it? We'll wait for assistant director Graham Harris."

"You want to call him?"

"I already did", his superior says and looks at his watch. "We should maybe get her a coffee. After all, we don't want the CIA to believe we torture their people, do we?"

* * *

_Washington, Wednesday, 2__th__ November 2011, 10:43 p.m._

Graham Harris follows the security officer down the corridor of the noble Federal Bureau of Investigation, hiding his grin behind his stoic, irrefutable expression.

He has been here, quite a few times, during his years in duty. He would have found the way down to the interrogation rooms on his own, but the FBI is childishly stubborn and spoilt when outsiders access their territory. Even more when they regard the access as invasion, as a violation of their sovereignty.

Pride… A nemesis to each and every agency of the United States, yet, he does not infringe this moral law. He knows the rules set for this game.

The security officer stops and points wordlessly at the door to his left. Finally, he allows his lips to curl into a grin, only for a second, before he opens the door and enters.

He does not waste a single look through the mirror, instead, focuses his eyes immediately on the elder man in front of him.

"Assistant director Graham Harris, Central Intelligence Agency", he says politely and holds out his hand.

The man hesitates, barely for a second, but he catches it. He is in his early fifties, bold, tall slender. Built like a greyhound. A thinker, of course. The superior of a bunch of profilers cannot be a man of action.

"Special agent in charge Adam Petko", the man replies and shakes his hand shortly, before he nods at the younger man next to him. "Special agent Jayden, our profiler on the Kolson case."

They exchange a short nod, but he doesn't pay any attention to the man. Agent Jayden is not in charge here. Not mentioning he has already analyzed him, from head to toe, from his grades in elementary school to university.

"Well, agent Petko", he says, starts the affair d'honneur. "I understand you keep one of my agents in custody?"

It is all about temper. It's all about who loses control. It's all about superiority.

"Not in custody", Petko replies deliberately. "Miss… O'Neal came to us on her own, free will. Besides, as we arrested her, we didn't know anything about her… status. Which you might want to confirm, before we continue our conversation."

The man points at the mirror.

"Of course", he replies politely, steps forward and looks through it. He realizes she hasn't followed his advice to buy an umbrella, then turns back.

"Special agent Kate O'Neal, badge number 35131. She belongs to my department. Well, saying belongs…"

"She was reported dead", Petko says, his voice still very calm.

"Reported dead, buried and resurrected. Miracles happen easily inside the CIA", he replies nonchalant.

Petko blinks in irritation, but quickly regains his composure. "I assume it is also true that she has been Jack Kolson's contact agent?"

"Yes."

"But her name isn't mentioned in the files you gave us."

He smiles slightly. "Internal politics, I am afraid. Besides, what use would it have been? Special agent O'Neal has not participated in the ongoing investigation."

"She was part of the investigation Jack Kolson sabotaged…"

He cuts in quickly. "Actually, she was one of the persons he sabotaged."

Petko's eyes narrow. He doesn't like to be interrupted. Good.

"She says she can provide us with information. Help us."

"Oh yes, of course she does", he replies indifferently. "I would do the same if I were in her position."

"Which position?" Petko asks.

He sighs and shakes his head. "What do you think? Why would a special agent of the CIA turn to the FBI, risk everything, just to be involved in an investigation?"

Petko hesitates. To his surprise, it is agent Jayden who finally speaks.

"Personal motives."

He turns his head and raises an eyebrow. "Very good, agent Jayden. Now, the CIA believes personal motives only hinder an investigation. Therefore, we do not allow our agents to risk the sake of our nation just to… follow their wishes and emotions."

"You think she wants to take revenge on Kolson because he tried to kill her", Petko states.

"Sadly, yes. Weird, isn't it? So many shootings, so many assassinations... But I guess people take it a lot more serious when they are betrayed by someone from within their ranks."

"What if we want her to cooperate with us?" Petko asks, ignoring his last statement.

He shrugs his shoulders. "Well, it will surely please high command to see our cooperation deepen."

"You will not interfere?"

"As far as agent O'Neal is concerned, I had to realize my interference is neither wanted, nor of any use."

Silence falls between them. Petko's eyes linger on him, before he says: "You think it would be wrong, do you?"

He raises his hands in defense. "What do you expect from me, agent Petko? That I tell you whether she is, or isn't, of any use to you?"

"After all the secret-mongering? Yes. Yes, I think you owe us a clear statement. For once."

"And I would be happy to assist you if I could. All I can say is that agent O'Neal hasn't been on duty for over a year now. She has missed dozens of tactical trainings, exercises and, even more important, psychological examinations. If I thought about reactivating her, it would take at least three months before she would be stated fit for service again. And even if she'd make it through all of it, I still wouldn't entrust her with this case. But well, if you just want Kolson's attention, let her participate. As far as I know him, he will surely try to finish what he messed up. He is a perfectionist, as you may have realized by reading his personal file."

"What happens to her if we decide against her?" Petko asks.

"We will take care of her."

"And by taking care of her you are referring to…"

"That's none of your business", he says sharply.

Petko nods and, with one, last look through the mirror, says: "You didn't bring her badge, did you?"

Without saying a word, he holds it out to him.

"Thank you", Petko says and takes it.

He nods, then turns around, ready to leave. There is nothing more to say. The rules for the game are set. By the wrong people, by the wrong girl, but it doesn't really matter. He can adapt to it. He can adapt to everything.

"I want her personal file", agent Jayden suddenly says.

The amused grin sneaks back onto his lips as he turns around. "Yes. I bet you do", he says. "You'll have it tomorrow."

And with those words, the king leaves the surveillance room and the J. Edgar Hoover building, leaves it for another game of chess.

* * *

_Washington, Wednesday, 2__th__ November 2011, 11:02 p.m._

Kate O'Neal can hardly resist tapping her foot onto the white tiles of the interrogation room. She wonders if the king is already there. She wonders if he's already gone. She knows the odds are against her, knows she'll probably leave this building in handcuffs, but maybe, only maybe, only this once, things will go as she has planned them to go. Just this once…

The door opens and she looks up, unable to suppress the adrenaline shooting through her veins. For a moment, she is sure the king will enter the room. She can even see the smile on his lips, the way he shakes his head, tells her nonverbally how foolish she really is, how stupid… But instead, she looks into the eyes of Adam Petko.

"Here. You might need this", he says and slides the badge over the table.

She grabs it and looks at it, wide-eyed, disbelieving.

_I did it, _she thinks. _I fucking did it._

_Yeah. Got yourself into trouble once more. Congratulations, _the voice interferes, sulky as ever. She doesn't even hear it. Her fingers run almost tenderly over the solid material, her reconnection to everything she has been, everything she has wanted…

"There are some things we have to discuss", Petko says and rips her out of her thoughts. "If you would follow me…"

She rises and attaches the badge to her belt. It feels unreal, even misplaced, but she hasn't worn a badge in quite a while, hasn't worn one for years, hasn't worn one since she joined the king's department. He probably brought it just to show her that she is now officially out of his team, but actually, she couldn't care less. She knows this is her last case, for good or for bad. She knows she cannot return.

As they finally enter Petko's office, her eyes fall on agent Jayden, who stands next to the door, arms akimbo, eyes pretending to look at her, but actually, focusing on a point on the wall behind her.

He surely wishes the king would have taken her with him. Well, actually, she can't blame him.

"The CIA has given consent to your participation on the case", Petko says and closes the door. "When you leave the building, you can reclaim your gun at the reception. However, there are certain rules you'll have to follow if you really want to cooperate with us."

She focuses her attention back on him and raises an eyebrow. Rules? She just betrayed the CIA and this guy really talks about rules?

"First, this investigation rests on the FBI, not the CIA. Therefore, you will report to us. Only to us. Do you understand?"

"Well, that should be easy", she replies carelessly. "I really doubt the CIA still wants to talk to me. Sir."

Petko looks at her sharply, but decides to ignore her comment. "I take this as a yes. Second, you will share all the information about Kolson with me, or agent Jayden, no matter if it is classified or not."

"Yessir."

"And last, you will not play a lone hand. Every step you take in this investigation will be coordinated with me, or agent Jayden."

She risks a short look at the younger agent, expecting him to show any sign of discomfort, but to her surprise, his green eyes are completely blank.

"Yessir."

"Good", Petko says. "You will get a security pass from the reception, as well. This security pass allows you to enter the building, this story and the cafeteria. If you need access to other sections, the ballistics, for example, you will have to ask agent Jayden to take you there."

"Fine by me", she says.

"Tomorrow, we will provide you with a new cell phone. You will carry this cell phone with you 24/7 and I expect you to be reachable every second of the day."

"Of course."

"Very well", Petko says and looks at his watch. "Everything else can wait until tomorrow. Agent Jayden, why don't you lead agent O'Neal back to the reception? You can discuss your first steps together on your way."

The younger agent nods shortly and leaves the office wordlessly. She suppresses the urge to grin, then follows him back through the corridor, to the elevator.

She has to admit, he's pretty good in hiding his discomfort, at least, now. It surely takes him a lot of strength not to punch her into the face. At least, that's what she would do if she was in his position. Hell, she has punched someone in the face who has outsmarted her like this, years ago. The elevator holds and they are back in the entrance hall. The receptionist raises her head and shoots her a glance as they approach her. Wordlessly, she hands over her gun and the security pass.

_Making friends, are you?_ the voice asks sarcastically, but she ignores it again.

"You have to sign this", the receptionist says, her voice sounding quite hostile.

She takes the pen and signs it, only to realize she has used the wrong name. For a second, she stares at the sheet of paper, irritated, then cancels the name and signs it again. Of course, her mistake doesn't go unnoticed.

"Suffer a multiple personality disorder?" Jayden asks and his voice sounds almost… glorious.

"Well, we all have our crosses to bear, don't we?" she asks back and looks at him.

The grin on his lips vanishes in a nano-second. "Come on", he says shortly and walks towards the door in the lower left corner.

"I thought we were leaving", she states.

"The parking lot is over here", he replies.

"I don't need the parking lot."

He opens the door and steps outside. "You don't have a car? Wow. I didn't think the CIA would be so stingy."

"Don't be so stupid. Of course I have a car."

"Well, then you will need a parking space, won't you?"

"No, I won't."

"You won't."

She sighs and sounds annoyed. "I don't drive."

"You don't drive", he repeats slowly.

"Exactly. Listen, why don't you just tell me when I shall be here tomorrow morning, so we can finally end this pretty useless conversation? The coffee you got in there isn't really high class stuff you know, so I am pretty tired…"

"Oh, I am deeply sorry the coffee doesn't meet your expectations. You should maybe reconsider your offer", he replies sarcastically.

"Oh yeah, I bet you'd love that, wouldn't you? Too bad I am not going to reconsider anything."

"Or apologize for anything", he mutters.

She looks at him, surprised. "Apologize for what?"

"Oh, I don't know… Pointing a gun to my head, maybe?"

"Oh, come on, I am a CIA agent. Even you must have figured out by now I never intended to shoot."

"And what about the rest?"

"Which rest?" she asks, her voice completely calm.

He just stares at her, speechless.

"Oh, that rest", she pauses. "No. No, I'm not going to apologize for that, either."

And she walks forwards, only to turn back around. "I mean, after all, you certainly had more fun than I did, don't you agree?"

And with these words, she leaves the parking lot and heads down the street.

**So, with the formalities finally out of the way, stay tuned for:**

**- an interrogation**

**- a welcome back party for Kate O'Neal (a.k.a. the shooting)**

**- paparazzi**

**- a worried father**

**- a car accident**

**- the reason why Kate doesn't drive **

**- unconventional rehab**

**- a cemetery **

**- collateral damage **

**And I still love reviews :-).**


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